Below the Surface
by AliaAtreidesBr
Summary: After "The Dark Knight", Bruce Wayne/Batman is struggling to keep his hold on Gotham. However, there are new players interested in joining the game. Catwoman, Hush, Talia and more. Chapter 19: for a little girl, they you'll do whatever it takes. MATURE CONTENT.
1. First Date

This is merely my humble take on this movieverse, a story that brings characters and elements that haven't yet been used.

As I write this I've just heard that the character of Catwoman will be in the next Bat-movie, which is great. How will they used her is still a mystery, but I believe it's gonna be pretty awsome. I've no intention of predicting anything, or writing what I think is a definitive take on any of those characters. The only thing I tried was to write those character in a way that they could fit in this universe, a more realistic take of Batman. So, in no way I'm writing Catwoman or Batman as I see them in comics - okay, in some ways I am, but also trying to be faithful to what was stated in both films.

I ask of you, dear reader, a few things. **First**, that you review. I love reviews. I love hearing what you think, especially if you have a suggestion or an interesting observation. **Two**, forgive any mistakes. English is not my first language, and I mess up sometimes. Forgive me, and if you see mistakes, I beg you, point them to me so I can fix them. **Three**, I appreciate you being here, and I apologize for this enormous, gigantic first chapter. It just wouldn't be right if I published it in separate parts, and thats what I have for you. It's not bad, I think, considering it's an introduction of sorts.

Thank you again, dear reader. Keep in mind I don't own any of those characters, Warner does.

Hope I see you again, and soon.

Have a good weekend.

* * *

Their first date had been awfully romantic: in Gotham's Gallery of Arts, under the stars.

She had heard of him before, of course. She knew of him, who in Gotham City didn't? She thought she didn't care.

Little lies, she was always fond of them. Truth was, she could have stayed where she was. To steal was fun, but she didn't need to go so deep, so far. It wasn't for the money – she had plenty of that now, ever since her last "tour" in Europe. A few old pictures from the Louvre and the ancient jewelry she got in London had filled her pockets in a way even her most wild dreams couldn't have. For all she knew, she could have lived the rest of her life in Mediterranean beaches, drinking _margueritas_, worrying about the next party, the next outfit, the next man.

The end.

What a life that would be! But then again, it wouldn't feel right. It just wasn't _her_.

There was this thing about Gotham, and how it always stroked her as the place she would forever call home. Narrow alleys, the dirty, perverted East Side of her childhood, the ugly and perverse people that wandered over those streets. Mobsters being tortured by crazy clowns and men that dressed like bats. How wonderful. How… _appropriate_. Suddenly, and from the view of an ocean away, Gotham looked so different from the place she had left. And yet, familiar. Really, wasn't it something to expect? One day, one day someone would decide he or she had had enough. She had decided it herself, those fifteen years ago, and that had drove her to the streets and then to a line of work, finally arriving here, in her happy ending – but someone, someone _else_, could end up like that: someone that was brave and disturbed enough, someone that had probably spend time in a padded cell, but someone that had a little decency in himself. No doubt.

And now Gotham City attracted her. She read papers, magazines, browsed all over the net and did her research. Not only this Batman-thing had fought crime in an over-criminalized town; he had made a statement. No matter that people took turns praising him or insulting him, that the police helped him or ostracized him, that fine folks of Gotham thought highly or badly about him: he was there. Always there. Doing his thing. And liking or not, believing or not, hating or not, people were affected by him and _changed_ by him. Just look at those A-class hypocrite millionaire bastards, people like pathetic Bruce Wayne: just as the filth started to be cleaned from the nicest parts of town, they started to come back. It was party after party, donation after donation, pretty and shinny little things seen all over the place. Gotham City didn't look like that decadent, suburban Metropolis anymore. Gotham now had its arts, its five stars restaurants and hotels, its enlightened elite that very much enjoyed the actual enjoying of life, in all its style – high-style, baby, multimillionaire style.

And that, of course, was what Selina Kyle thought of as a pretty damn good life.

* * *

The Catwoman thing didn't happen at the very beginning, or not until she realized that a place like Gotham City didn't get impressed about just anything. Really, if it wasn't for the money? It was all about the fame.

She took hits and learned in anonymity. It was safer. She didn't get where she was by being lots of looks and no brains, and she knew that it was smarter to test the temperature of the waters before actually jumping in. All and all, she also had her doubts about the Batman and the reach of his arms; her research hadn't showed much, but it had made her almost positive she would be dealing with _one_ guy, and only one. But what kind of guy?

And so came the first job. A family job, as she liked to call: breaking into somebody's home and taking a personal – and valuable – object. Perfect start, subtle, unpredictable, not a news-breaker. Perfectly executed. As far as she knew, not a single lose end left to be followed.

Then why, she asked herself, why did she found herself unsure and uneasy while researching her next target? After the family job, she thought it would be useful to aim in a more… _visible _target. Nothing too fancy or special, but something that would attract attention of the right eyes; you know, so she could actually learn who was that new man in town…

Her choice was an emotional one, she admitted. Despite all the research, she went for that one thing that made her eyes glow. Yes, she had planned the robbery of a well known, reasonably secured jeweler store. But wasn't it an wonderful coincidence that the one she had chosen had just received an amazing pair of emerald and white gold earrings that had the suggestive name of The Feline Glimpse?

Yes, she had always had a thing for cats.

Things were supposed to go smoothly, but surprises were the one thing she had learned to expect in her line of business. That night, when she made her through the archaic security system of the top window in the store's building, she realized something was wrong.

Call it a six sense. A premonition, or even a coincidence, maybe a happy turn in fate. Whatever it was, it manifested the second she stepped inside. No alarm had been triggered – or she thought it hadn't -, but she noticed a weird, unusual movement in one of the security cameras. Like it wasn't an automatic movement – like it had been moved, controlled by someone, somewhere. An hell was set if it had, because she had paid good money for an interference device to disable those things and put a false recording in the place of the actual one, and movement of the damn camera meant someone was watching and _seeing _her.

Creepy.

She was out in fifteen seconds, and far away in less than a minute. But then, as she found herself crawling over the rooftop of a building, she felt herself compelled to go back. _Just do it!_, she told herself. Go back. She was just being paranoid…

It was a good thing that she returned, because it taught her to trust her instincts: as she moved under the protection of the shadows, she could see that massive thing people had nicknamed "Bat-car" parked in an alley, an all black vehicle she couldn't begin to understand how it could driven – piloted? –, since it had no resemblance with an actual car. What was front and what was back? She didn't stick around to figure it out.

The reason for that was _him_. Sure. That would be the tone of the rest of her criminal life, and she had a feeling which insinuated that even then. She saw as he silently observed the streets from a high building, his massive figure barely noticed as he concealed himself in a dark corner. She had the benefit of night-sight goggles, and still she almost missed him – the same could not be said by him, as she was positive he had caught a fairly good look of her, from his privileged position up there, binoculars and all.

It was a good thing, then, that she had been extra careful and had planned an emergency escape route. An _escape_ route! How many times had she done that before? None. Not once. Not even a single time before she had been forced to use the emergency escape route, and worst: empty handed.

She consoled herself with the fact that she had only been seen because she had been foolish enough to go back, return to the almost-crime scene. Stupid. And yet, useful.

Well, at least, now she knew. Batman wasn't a nobody. A wacko that jumped over shoplifters and drug-addicts. No. He was the real deal, sweetheart, true crime fighter in mask and a resourceful son of a bitch. Maybe Gotham's mafia was a bunch of morons that had too much money, but Batman was way above their league…

He was in _her_ league, up to the fight she could bring to that town, and she was _so_ excited by that.

* * *

And then Catwoman was born. Just like that. An idea that came from the silliest line of thought: the earrings she wasn't able to take, the fact her opponent dressed like a disgusting rat with wings, the idea that cats were those independent, smart animals that were so good in surviving and making a living on the streets. Gotham had no lack of cats, no lack of dark, subtle creatures wandering over its dark alleys.

But now Batman would know one that could really scratch his pride…

* * *

The party at Gotham Gallery was both convenient and annoying. Annoying in its very nature: formal galas had a special way of combining boring people, boring conversation and bad food.

The convenient part was for the easy access to the Gallery from inside, what could actually help her work. Considering the lessons learned in her last unaccomplished job, she realized that things in Gotham had to be done in very small, careful steps. The big leaps were for special moments, were for the climax in her perfectly executed plays. But the beginning, the planning, that had to be written in clear words, a set of movements so well practiced and revised that she had to be able to do it with her eyes closed and hands tied.

So, a visit to that Gallery, a close look at the place and its security, an opportunity to see the object of her desire – a magnificent crown that had belonged to Richard Lion Heart of England -, that was a chance that shouldn't be missed.

She would have to put an extra effort to get her invitation, since the party was considered a very exclusive one. A hundred guests, no more. Only for Gotham's most honorable and outstanding citizens – the glamorous ones, the filthy rich and most disgusting people in town, if she had anything to say about it. She had read in the papers about the opening, planned for a week later, and had done extensive research to discover when the pieces would arrive in Gotham City and how they would be transported, prepared for display, the usual. Her original idea was to get the crown, the most important piece of the exhibition, in the night after the grand opening, but she realized that wouldn't be so easy – by then, she learned from a solid source, the remodeling of the alarm system would be already finished, and her job would be a thousand times harder.

Before that, she found out, the pieces would be safely locked in Gotham's First Bank, probably the most secure place in town – except, of course, for that one night. The night in which Gotham's royalty would have the opportunity of taking a privileged look at those pieces, God forbid them of having to mingle with the common crowd for that. Therefore, by Bruce Wayne's hand, the most privileged of them all, some fortunate people would have the chance of seeing, even touching that beautiful crown before anyone else in town. The Prince of Gotham had again showed his power and boldness, and had arranged the party in the Gallery, taken care of security and even paid an extra million or two to have the damn pieces transported from the bank and back again for a mere period of six hours. A small price to pay if history and art are second to champagne and glamour in your life.

All and all, Selina had to thank little Bruce and his bratty attitude. It would be a great chance to do her thing; she knew that she had a small window of time to get to the crown when it was least guarded, and the party was exactly the kind of event that allowed her to study the Gallery without much effort. And, unless Batman could do the same, she would have plenty space in that playground only to herself.

There was the issue of getting invited, not an easy feat; but Selina liked challenges, especially those that involved a different set of abilities from the ones she was so used to display.

Despite all her money, Selina had every intention of keeping a low profile in Gotham, at least for a while. For the obvious reasons, it wasn't interesting for her if she suddenly presented herself as a millionaire socialite, with lots of money from unknown sources. For her little act to work, she had to look like a person with reasonable income, something that could explain her comfortable and independent life, but wouldn't strike anyone as strange to the point of criminal. She had experienced that before, and had practice in faking personas and incomes just like she had in picking locks. It was simply a matter of finding what she was in the mood for doing during a few hours in week days – surprisingly, not many things.

She discovered, however, an antique dealer that was selling his store, and that seemed to meet her needs. The place was in the market because the previous owner had retired, and had no heirs to follow his footsteps. Located in a nice neighborhood, the store was fairly known in Gotham, and had a few faithful clients, most of them rich and eccentric, people that asked just as many questions as they answered – few to none. Add to that the fact that the store was located just two blocks away from the nice brownstone that also belonged to the previous owner, and it was also for sale; two for one, a perfect match.

To her own surprise, she had managed to adapt easily and quickly. She kept the two employees the old man had, and they were really helpful: both knew the business pretty well, and, even more important, the clients.

It was a thirty-something guy named Liam and a young college student named Claire. He was a very experienced retailer, and knew exactly what to buy and for the right price, just like he could recognize a forgery or a damaged object simply by looking at the thing. Claire, on the other hand, wasn't as skilled as Liam, but she was a smooth talker that could charm her way into and out off almost anything; the girl knew all the clients by name and had a remarkable knowledge of Gotham's high society, their sins and their virtues, and in which beds they jumped in.

When Selina realized she needed to get an invitation for the Gallerie's party, it was to Claire she turned to: if there was a chance one of those playboys didn't have a date for that party yet, Claire would know.

* * *

His name was Thomas Elliot, and Claire had described him as "quite a catch".

Selina wasn't in it for the man, but she definitely didn't mind the fact that her target was handsome and charming, not mention an intellectual that had a thing for Greek philosophers. At least he wasn't one of those dumb Richie Riches, although she had yet to make her judgment about the attractiveness of his personality.

From what Claire had told her, he was _Doctor_ Thomas Elliot, neurosurgeon, highly accomplished. Single. Had recently lost his mother – _a mean bitch!_, Liam had said as a complement to Claire's profile, remembering with great bitterness how the old lady, Mrs. Elliot, often visited the store and invariably insulted the poor salesperson that was unfortunate enough to be there at the moment.

And he was, as Claire was quick to add, a childhood friend of Bruce Wayne's. From what she had heard, ever since Wayne had suddenly returned to Gotham to assume the family business, their friendship was revived; the last few months had social columns in the papers showing Bruce and Thomas and various events together, playing polo in the country club and enjoying the opera with their respective dates in the same grandstand. If there was someone that wouldn't miss that party, it would be Thomas Elliot. Hell, he probably was one of the few people that would actually _enjoy_ seeing the pieces in display. _Maybe_, she wondered, _enduring Dr. Elliot's company for one night wouldn't be that much of a sacrifice_.

* * *

She took her time looking at the impressive mansion while she walked from her car to the front door. It was an enormous house, built in the style of those New Orleans French Quarter's mansions. Selina knew a bit about architecture, and also about restoration, and it was clear that the place had been through one quite recently; the house, it's garden, it was like she was walking in a 1920's movie, the heat from the summer adding another element into that southern picture. Who could imagine there was a place in Gotham City like this one? Surely not her, whose childhood had been lived in the always decadent East Side, that ghetto, a place people like Thomas Elliot probably had never even visited.

She reached the front door in quiet, solemn steps. Removed her sunglasses and moved a lock of dark hair from her front to behind her ear. She knew she was being watched, and it was better if she didn't look eager or nervous at all – and she really wasn't, actually. Playboys like this Elliot had too many women drooling over his looks and money, and that was just old news, something so unimpressive that was easily dismissed. And she didn't want to be dismissed; not for at least five days, when the Gallery party would take place.

She rang the bell and waited patiently for a minute; when nothing happened, she rang it again.

_Playing difficult, are we? _Selina knew he was home; she had done her research. He wasn't on call at the hospital, and wasn't at his practice either. The Mercedes he drove was at the garage, she saw it as she walked through the front garden. Oh, and there was the silhouette of someone watching her from one of the second floor's windows – either there was someone home or the house was haunted; for now, she would go with option one.

Just after the third rang of the bell she heard steps; hard, large steps, that approached in no hurry. She also heard the door being unlocked – three locks, she counted, but only one was apparent from the outside. Interesting; it seemed that Dr. Elliot was more cautious or fearful than she had thought at first. This mental note was left to be considered later, however, as the door opened to reveal a tall, large man, dressed in casual but expensive clothes, whose features were both masculine and well cared, staring at her in a grey, inquisitive look:

"Yes", he asked, his furred brows showing he was exasperated beyond what his politeness could disguise.

_Time to work!_, she reminded herself.

"Hi", she said, her most charming and innocent smile on her lips. "I'm so sorry to disturb you, Mr….?"

He seemed intrigued by her hesitation, but fell for it:

"Elliot. _Doctor_ Thomas Elliot." He crossed his arms in front of his chest, what wasn't a particularly good sign, Selina, thought. Time to explore her acting skills, and any kind of sympathy this guy could have for vulnerable women.

"_So,_ so sorry for this… I see you're busy, I'll just drop this here and be on my way…" She leaned to place the package she had in her hands on the floor.

That had an effect on the man:

"Calm down, Miss… sorry, I didn't catch your name…"

"Selina. Selina Kyle." She reached her hand at him, and he took it unceremoniously – instead of shaking it, he placed a light kiss on her knuckles.

_All right_, she thought, _we are finally back on tracks._

"I apologize for my manners", he said, and there was a half-smile softening his sharp features, "but I was in the middle of something when you arrived."

"Oh. Okay, I… I'm sorry. I should have called, but…"

"No, no, it's fine." He stepped to the side and waved a hand. "Please, come inside. It wasn't anything important, and I just can't let a beautiful woman standing at my door in this weather. You must be thirst and… _hot_."

Pretending she didn't catch the suggestive intonation in that last word of his, Selina retrieved the package on the floor and entered the house. "Thank you", she said in a cheerful tone. "It's really _burning_ outside, I tell you! My God, I'm so not used to that… who would have guessed summers in Gotham could be so _merciless_!"

He lead her to the living room, a place with high ceiling and modern furniture, pleasantly cool, and with large glass doors that provided a lovely view of the backyard. Dr. Elliot waited for her to seat and immediately started to prepare drinks for both.

"You are not from Gotham, then?" He proceeded with the small talk.

"No, no, I'm not… I've recently moved, actually. From Seattle."

"Seattle to Gotham? Well, that's…"

"Far, I know! But I'm used to it. I've moved quite a lot my entire life… my father's job demanded it."

"What was his line of work?" He gave her a martini.

"He was in the Army."

"Oh." He sat next to her on the couch. "I'm sorry, Selina… can I call you Selina?"

"Certainly", she agreed, a seductive half-smile on her bright red lips.

"Well, Selina, you haven't told me yet: what brought you here? I mean, it was a pleasant surprise, but I'm also curious about this package you're carrying right there."

"Oh, this?" She pointed at the wrapping on her lap like she had completely forgotten about it – as if; that thing in there belonged to her personal "collection", and she was anything but glad she was letting it go. She tried to think about it as an investment, however, considering the potential gains of Friday night.

And she could always steal it back, of course.

"This is an order your wife placed at my store several months ago…"

"Wait", he said, his features abruptly changing from joyful to severe. "Wait. I'm not married."

"Aren't you?" The innocence in her own tone was so believable that she wished there was an audience to applaud her. "Well, it was a Mrs. Elliot that placed the order, and the address is this…"

"It was my mother", he interrupted her. "She probably did it before passing away."

She turned mute for a moment, the amount of time she judged appropriate to suggest she was embarrassed. Then, in a commiserated tone:

"I'm so deeply sorry, sir. I did not know, I've bought the store and thought… thought I should honor the commitments the last owner had firmed, so…"

"No, no, it's alright…! Really, it's perfectly okay." He placed one of his hands over hers. "I'm just… well, my mother died quite recently, and it's still a little difficult to talk about her."

"I know what you mean", she said. She couldn't believe she was actually saying it. "My mother… I've lost her too. Many years ago. And it's still… hard."

Selina knew she wasn't lying, but realized there was a thin line between what she had to do to get what she needed and just being cruel. Her original plan involved exploring Dr. Elliot's grief, but in a vague manner: she would bring the object telling him his mother had ordered it – he would either sympathize or wouldn't; there wasn't much more she could do.

But now she saw the opportunity to explore it even further, and maybe it was time to let it go. Thomas Elliot probably wasn't a bad man; he was a doctor, after all, someone that saved lives for a living, and wasn't his fault that he was rich and friends with Bruce Wayne. He deserved better. Probably.

Besides, he was a total stranger – why tell him anything about her mother? Especially something _real_.

It was Gotham. Being in Gotham was always a little weird… too many memories. Most of them, well, weren't _good_ memories. Maybe this wasn't worth it.

"You know what?" She stood up in a quick movement, Thomas Elliot watching her in a startled expression. "I should go. I'm so very sorry for this, Dr. Elliot. I apologize, honestly"

She walked to the front door, leaving behind a speechless Thomas Elliot. She didn't reach the first steps of the porch, however, as he catch up with her:

"Wait", he called, his face showing amusement.

She did as asked, and he proceeded:

"What was it?"

"What…?"

"The thing… the thing my mother ordered?"

The hesitation she displayed wasn't an act; she was, really was unsure about it now. She didn't know exactly why, but Thomas Elliot was a different man than she had pictured – and the feeling she had about him, about his house and that situation… she felt uneasy about it. There was something strange, and she couldn't place precisely what.

Despite all that, she tore open the package. There was no other way, no other approach; she was who she was, and it was rare for her to back out when she simply had the option of… not.

From pieces of brown paper she took it; a silver cup, richly engraved, thin gold lines that traced a sentence that read: "_I too shall lie in the dust when I am dead, but now let me win noble renown._"

Thomas examined the cup in his hands with great care, and for a long time. He finally said, his cheeks pale to the point his skin looked grey:

"Homer", he gravely stated, "a quote from the Iliad. She knew I loved the classics."

Selina nodded in silence.

Then, in a drastic change of tone, color returning in a flush to his face, he asked:

"Tell me, Selina: do you like medieval art?"

* * *

It was five past eight when Alfred entered the Batcave:

"You shouldn't take the expression 'fashionably late' so seriously, sir."

"I don't", Bruce answered. He had been working in the cave for the last six or seven hours, and had lost track of time.

"And yet, you follow it faithfully." In his hands the butler had Bruce's tuxedo. "The Gallery party has already begun."

Bruce never turned from the computer: "I hope all our guests are having a good time."

"Surely, sir. Though they are probably wondering where their favorite host is, of course. "

Bruce sighed and finally turned his attention from the computer and to his butler. "Give me that", he said, grabbing the clothes from Alfred's hands.

* * *

As the party kept going through the night, Bruce pretended to drink his champagne and wondered if his effort had, after all, been worth of anything.

Alfred said he was too obsessed, and that perhaps it wasn't too late for him to finally relax for while, and maybe take a vacation. That had made Bruce smile, of course.

He agreed with Alfred, however, that the party might have been too much. After all, it was so much money spent, so much precious time lost, and just for a wild guess. The _obsession_ the butler referred to, maybe this one time, seemed somewhat out of place.

The idea came to him the other night, when he ran his usual scan through the unsolved cases files of Gotham PD. He knew about the robbery in Veronica Vreeland's mansion, when that ruby necklace had been taken from her safe, and there was that alarm that had been triggered in the jewelry a few weeks later – he was pretty sure the offender, in both cases was the same. Just one person, working alone. A talented, smart one, he bet; someone that could open an electronic lock like it was nothing, and that had means to scramble digital cameras easily and unnoticed. Not so very skilled when it came to hide in shadows and stepping lightly, if the person he had seen near the jewelry shop was she, but…

And there was that: it was a _woman_. A female thief, and a very good one – what an intriguing puzzle.

He was certain that the rogue in action was the same woman that had performed quite well in Europe for the last four or five years. He identified at least twenty two different robberies, going from works of art to actual money, works that included physical prowess and acrobatic skills, moderate use of violence, a great deal of computer hacking and an amazing amount of careful planning. Unfortunately, the woman was really good at her job, and there wasn't much information about the author of the crimes, but Bruce had a few things figured out – for instance, he knew she wasn't doing it for the money. Not at this point, not considering the incredible amount of money she probably had accumulated so far. It was for the thrill, for the action, for the interesting attraction she seemed to have for tall buildings and pretty things.

But why Gotham? That, he didn't know.

The ruby necklace she took was purely for showing, he realized. She was testing the ground, making her presence known. The jewelry was a target a few steps higher, but it had only one, perhaps two pieces that were noteworthy. In truth, the entire Gotham didn't offer many targets, or at least not as many as London, Metropolis, Dubai, Tokyo or Paris. Sure, the girl had toured in all those places already, but could she possibly find something interesting in Gotham? Something that was at her level…?

And why was she there? Why?

Frankly, he was almost relieved when he learned about the new exhibition planned for the Gallery. It had "target" written all over it, and he immediately thought it was too great of an opportunity for a skilled thief to miss. Why take chances, then? Why not provide an even better opportunity, a moment in which stealing those pieces would be so much easier and simpler?

And a chance for Batman to finally catch the showoff of a thief that wanted so badly to be news in Gotham.

He didn't know exactly why, but having that "lady-burglar"- as Alfred called her - around his city was terribly disturbing. The notion of someone committing crimes for simple pleasure, and deliberately attracting attention – _his _attention – was just too familiar. He remembered the last time when a criminal wanted to play _games_, and how that had changed Gotham and Batman. How it changed Bruce Wayne.

Alfred was right. Maybe throwing the party had been a vanity thing, and not the _right_ thing. Maybe there was a line he shouldn't cross when it comes to mix Batman's business and Bruce's life. A lesson he should have learned long ago…

"There he is", he listened the familiar voice speaking behind him, "our very own Prince of Gotham, and he doesn't even pretend to be paying attention to his subjects."

Tommy Elliot, his childhood friend that had recently returned to Gotham. Not bad company, actually. In the last three months, he had spent quite some time with Tommy again, and that wasn't all bad. Rachel's death had really thrown him into what he now considered the deepest low of his life – his Bruce Wayne facet had almost been lost to him, and he hardly saw any point in keeping the playboy act he had worked so hard to maintain. But then Tommy moved back, and had insisted in getting together. He was one of the few people that knew Rachel, and how close they had been; he remembered her so well, and had so many stories to recollect. His constant joking, the way he took everything so lightly, how he never talked about money or business. Not to mention the suitable opportunities he constantly provided to restore Bruce Wayne's fame.

"Hey, Tommy."

He smiled and offered Elliot a handshake.

"Thanks for the invitation, buddy. It's a great party."

"Don't mention it", Bruce said. _Really, don't mention it, _he thought. If the lady-burglar didn't make a move, it had all been for nothing, and that would be a hard hit in his self-confidence. "Did you take a look at those trinkets already?"

Tommy laughed:

"You bet! Trinkets… yeah, that's a way of showing respect for History…" He whispered closer to Bruce's ear: "Don't worry, I won't tell the girls how you always aced your tests of Medieval History back in high school. Girls don't like nerds, right?"

Bruce took a sip of his champagne. "Oh, I don't know, Tommy… they seem to like neurosurgeons. Besides, I'm a college dropout, that always makes me look like a bad boy."

"Right, right, _I'm_ the nerd, thanks for reminding me…" He too drank from his scotch. "Today, however, I don't care."

"Feeling lucky?"

"_Very_ lucky." He tapped on Bruce's shoulder. "C'mon, there's someone I want you to meet."

"You have a _date_? What happened to the 'no strings attached' guy that spoke for hours during our last golf game about how he would take a break from dating?"

"You know me. Walking contradiction." Again he whispered: "And when you see her, you'll understand why."

Bruce shrugged, only moderately interested; that was just Tommy: always exaggerating.

* * *

The crown was just beautiful. Even more than she had pictured it. So perfect and unique, a delicate work that indeed belonged to a royal front. All in gold, precious stones adorning it, the emblem showing a lion that had celestial blue topazes for eyes. Precious. So precious and fine that Selina found herself eagerly counting minutes, wanting nothing but to finally leave and get to work: she could picture herself up there, close to the sky, smelling Gotham's polluted air and feeling the maritime breeze that often came from the docks. No matter the stink, the pollution, the corruption of the streets below; she just _loved_ being outside, felt so powerful and so focused, _happy_, for once.

So much more happy than she was now, among shallow people and their fake smiles, all those women looking at her with despise and disguised envy, all the men mirroring the despise so they could avoid showing the lust hidden under. It had always been like that, no matter the place in the world she was; when you're new to their circle, and young, and beautiful, you are welcomed with… well, not welcomed at all.

Her attitude didn't help, she admitted. The way she didn't care about being discreet, or not attracting attention. No, she _liked_ being noticed, and she would never deprive herself of the good things she worked so hard to get – maybe not _worked_ in the most classic meaning of the word, but struggled and put a lot of effort into. She liked to show off her pretty clothes, and her clothes were never design to exactly _hide_ her attractive body. She loved wearing her jewelry, always matching them to her outfit and often bringing out the remarkable green of her eyes. The heels she used not to look taller – she was tall enough, she thought –, but to give her resolute way of walking a touch of smoothness, of delicacy. The makeup she always did herself, never dismissing the dark mascara and bright eyeshades, her doll-like features gaining a smarter, sharper appearance.

She would never apologize for that. For her looks, for her nature, for who she was.

Selina forced herself to look away from the crown, and decided it wouldn't be too harmful if she drank a bit of wine. The red cabernet was lovely, and she wandered among the crowd holding her glass and vaguely searching for Thomas Elliot; he had left her a few minutes before to say hello to his friend Bruce Wayne, and hadn't returned yet. He wasn't bad company, Selina thought, but she was glad she had a few moments to herself as she admired the crown of her wishes. Now, however, she grew weary, and had to inform her "date" that she didn't feel well, and needed to leave – that would give her enough time to resume her preparations for later that night.

But Tommy, as he like to be called, was nowhere in sight. She walked without hurry along the hall, and reached a large, open window on the other side; there she leaned on the balustrade, as to feel the night air that came from outside: a warm, gentle wind that embraced her.

Delightful.

"You must be Selina", someone spoke softly, a male voice belonging to the person that had approached her unnoticed and now stood by her side.

She didn't answer promptly, taking her time to look at the inquirer: dark blue eyes, chiseled jaw, shaved features, his dark hair neatly cut and combed. Tall, she noticed, powerfully built, even athletic – a detail she knew many wouldn't pay attention to, but her trained eye couldn't miss. He had a recent scar on his chin, and older ones over his brow and lower lip – traits you don't usually see in gala events. The thought didn't cling into her mind, however, as she recognized the man that watched her curiously as he waited for an answer. She obliged:

"That's my name." She offered her hand for a handshake, but he took it and placed a gentle, brief kiss over her slender fingers. A gesture that reminded her of Thomas Elliot, and how he had echoed it on the occasion they first met. "And you are Bruce Wayne, Gotham's most illustrious citizen, aren't you?"

"Well, I'm Bruce Wayne, yes, but I don't know if 'illustrious' is a fitting adjective." He smiled at her, and drank from his champagne – well, not exactly. He merely touched his lips and drank nothing, a gesture Selina took as a way of distracting his interlocutor. Who would have thought Mr. Wayne had tricks to manage his social interactions? "Tell me, how did you know who I was?"

She had a few tricks herself: showing how unimpressed she was by rich playboys was a common one.

"You're not easy to miss, Mr. Wayne… Your picture is constantly in the newspapers, you're a notable person… I guess that throwing gigantic parties that end in mansions burned down is for few people indeed."

Selina saw how her words wounded him somehow, a sudden, though short-lived upset expression shadowed his features for a second. It was gone almost instantly, however, and he laughed as a cool, stress-free man should:

"Yes… that night… it taught me a lesson about the excess of alcohol… in more ways than one."

"Oh, I'm sure you did." She gave him a sympathetic smile, though she imagined the artificiality of it was pretty obvious. "What about me? We haven't been introduced before. How did you know my name?"

"You're Tommy's date. He… described you."

"Did he?" She thought that hard to believe. "In good words, I hope."

"He said you would be the most beautiful woman in here." He turned his eyes away from hers, and she saw a slight change in his gaze, even his tone – he seemed more grave, and yet, more authentic. "He wasn't lying."

"Oh." Selina found herself disconcerted for a moment. "That's nice of him… and you."

As he said nothing in response, she tried to keep the conversation going.

"Dr. Elliot tells me you're quite the expert when it comes to Medieval History…"

He assumed the usual expression of indolence again:

"Not at all…! Tommy is always trying to make me look smarter than I am… he has always been the brilliant one, and I just tag along, you know?" He shook his head and smiled. "But I do like excuses for parties, and this seemed like an excellent opportunity, don't you think?"

"I suppose. "

"By the way", he continued, "Tommy mentioned you are the owner of a store… what was it? Decoration?"

"Antiques. It's an antiquarian, actually."

"Yes, yes, he said that, sorry." Again he pretended to drink from his glass; Selina discovered that this dissimilation annoyed her a lot more than she first assumed. "He also said you're not from here…"

"Moved in from Philadelphia. But I'm sure he told you that too."

"Oh, I don't know… I asked him, and he said Seattle. I guess he doesn't know that much about you yet, given you've known each other for what…? Five, six days?"

Selina felt the coldness of deep anger in her stomach:

"I don't like what you are implying, Mr. Wayne."

He said nothing, and this time his expression showed no fake innocence or stupidity; he watched her in solemn silence, a scrutinizing glance that didn't give evidence of his true intentions.

"I'm sure it's hard for you to believe", she said in the most somber tone she could produce, "but not every woman in this town is interested in climbing up the social ladder, especially not by dating, marring or getting involved with vain womanizers…"

"There you are!" It was Thomas Eliot, interrupting Selina's speech with his loud voice and obvious presence. "Have you guys met already? That's convenient. I've been looking for you all over the place…"

He leaned to place a light kiss on Selina's cheek, one she accepted heartlessly.

"Is everything okay…?", he asked softly.

Selina sighed, and turned to face Thomas – the night had been long already, and there was so much more ahead of her. Bruce Wayne, who she had, at first, judged as an intriguing character, revealed himself as a true asshole. And she should have known; men like him often are, and that was part of the reason she had became who she was.

Or was about to be, if her plans went as she had traced them.

"I have to go, Tommy", she declared at a surprised Thomas Elliot and an impassible Bruce Wayne. "I… I need to go home."

Elliot seemed irremediably confused:

"Why?" He placed an arm around her shoulders, something that Selina found, to say the least, irritating. "Did something happen?"

"No, nothing happened… Nothing I couldn't deal with." She tried her best to keep from looking at the obnoxious Bruce Wayne while talking. "I'm just tired, that's all."

"Well, if you want to go, we'll go. I'll just say goodbye to a few people and…"

"No", she said, and quite bluntly. As Thomas reacted with shock in face of that, Selina tried to regain control and spoke in a gentler tone. "Really, it's not necessary. I don't want to spoil your night."

"It's not a problem", he assured her, though she noticed he was upset. "I want to drive you home."

"I can take a cab, handsome", she smiled her most sweet and charming smile. "See you tomorrow, maybe?"

She realized that was very unlikely, but also knew that Thomas wouldn't let her go if she didn't throw him a bone; tomorrow was tomorrow, and she would deal with it when necessary.

"Ok", he agreed as predicted, "I'll call you."

She nodded and accepted the kiss he tenderly placed on her forehead – it was a good thing that he wasn't as audacious as she had first assumed he would be, never trying to get from her more than friendly kisses and brief hugs. _Good_, she thought, _maybe he isn't a total bastard like his buddy over there._

Wayne remained at the same exact place, silently watching, his glass permanently full in one hand, the other inside his pocket, an undecipherable expression in his handsome, cold face.

* * *

"Women", Thomas shrugged, "to be around them really is a rollercoaster, isn't it?"

Bruce didn't add anything to that; he was lost in thoughts, asking himself what had just happened there. Fortunately, Tommy was also too self-absorbed to note the lack of involvement his friend showed for the conversation:

"Ah, 'everything that deceives may be said to enchant', Plato once said – he could very well be referring to women, don't you think?"

Now Bruce smiled in careless innocence, though his mind raced: Thomas Elliot's quote was indeed adequate, he pondered, if the woman in question was Selina Kyle. Deceiving? The word could certainly apply, though not in a way he could easily understand. When he heard Tommy's description of the "gorgeous, amazing woman" he had just met, he immediately wondered, as he always had, if she wasn't yet another one of those girls that were trying to make in life by marrying a wealthy, notorious bachelor. Not that Thomas Elliot wasn't familiar with that approach; he was maybe _too_ familiar, and enjoyed taking advantage of that. But Bruce was dealing with crime for too long to not contemplate the possibility of a _real_ crook coming up, one of the professional con-artists that specialized in taking money or, worst, lives, from naïve and rich people that were often looking for just another fun night. And Selina Kyle, of course, had sounded like too good to be true.

He had to admit, though, that Tommy was absolutely right when it came to her looks: gorgeous didn't even begin to describe her. She was beautiful, all right; but she was more than that. She was fascinating, a woman that could, despite her physical appearance, attract glances anywhere she went. The way she moved, smiled, even stared, drawing attention not only to her elegantly shaped body or idyllic features, but especially to her eyes – green emerald pools that seemed to miss nothing, that showed intelligence and cunning, that could belong to someone that had seen many more years, or been through so much more than mere galas and casual dates.

He knew he had been captivated by her the minute he saw her, and that scared him.

Bruce could only imagine the effect Selina could have on the man she seduced, and he bet she knew it quite well herself. He figured it wouldn't be difficult for her to get whatever she wanted from any men she chose, and a person that contemplated that sort of opportunity was seriously tempted to give it a try.

That, and she looked anything but an innocent girl.

It was strange, however, how she had reacted when they spoke. He had certainly been trying to fish for information, though she surprised him by reading so quickly his intentions. That would, in most cases, scream "guilt" – or so experience had showed him -, but he felt that Selina had been, in fact, honestly and deeply hurt by his veiled insinuations of her trying to take advantage of Tommy's money and social position. Her offense had been so authentic, her distress so truthful, that he know found himself _regretting_ his words. His disregard for her feelings suddenly stroke him as rude and surrounded by prejudice – couldn't she be honestly interested in Thomas Elliot? Was it so strange, so impossible that a man, though successful, could find a woman that saw through all that, that looked at man, and the man only – not the things he had, the social status he acquired?

He didn't have an answer for that, but realized that taking a cynical approach to those questions benefited no one. He thought of Rachel: she had been a true friend, a true love, and never, for a split second, he considered the possibility of those not being sincere, selfless feelings.

Maybe, he now considered, he hadn't done Thomas Elliot any favors.

* * *

The cold anger Selina had in her could make her scream, but she wouldn't waste it like that.

Long ago she had learned that anger, sorrow, even pain, could work well at her favor. They were fuel for her boldness; they made her quicker and smarter. The kind of thing that would make her more driven, more focused, and less merciful.

She thought of Bruce Wayne. Of a man that had everything, that had means to achieve anything he could possibly want. A man ever surrounded by beautiful things and privileges, a man that fate had covered in gifts: money, good-looks, intelligence – power. And yet, although that man could have been so much, he was nothing.

At home, in front of her mirror, she dressed her outfit: black leather and rubber, gloves that had metal claws. A hood – a mask. She measured her figure, her slender body, seductive and pretty. Her face, that so many had called attractive, gorgeous, she hid behind dark goggles.

And then she thought of Batman. Pictured him dressing himself in cape and tights, and realized that, obvious differences aside, he was like her in at least this: he didn't take for granted that life up there, the freedom of being a creature of the night, the pleasure in the solitude of a moment over a rooftop, watching the lights and the city bellow. Like her, he wasn't very fond of this civilian life, of dealing with people that, well, had no clue of how the world really was. How cruel, how dark, how violent, how scary it could be.

She knew. Her face concealed, the mirror showing her new persona, cat ears and all, she thought of thanking him, the Batman. It was a gift, really, what he had given her: a name, a new life. For now she felt beautiful, powerful, complete.

She knew who she was.

* * *

When he arrived at the cave, Alfred greeted him with a smile:

"Enjoyed the party, sir?"

Bruce was already getting undressed, his expensive clothes laying on the cold stone floor in complete abandon.

"That good?" The butler gazed with pity at the garment, tossed aside and discarded by Bruce without a second thought. That was no surprise; these days, the only outfit that seemed to interest Bruce Wayne was Batman's dark, beaten, overused uniform.

Bruce took it from the concealed safe, his armored skin, the very expression of his being. He treated it the same way he treated himself: never afraid to exposing it when necessary, always so worried about keeping it in shape for the next showdown. Like his own flesh, the armor looked better than it actually was or felt – the plaques that should cover and protect him weren't as fitting as they once had been, nor as effective. Though he regularly painted and repaired it, there were broken pieces and malfunctioned parts, scratches and marks that told how hard the last months had been. How dangerous, and lonely.

It had always been a risky business, but he knew things had drastically changed after the Joker. It wasn't only for the lack of collaboration he got from the cops or the people – it was for the lack of faith. There were crooks and wackos all over Gotham now that thought _they_ were the next Joker, and that they could get the Batman. People seem to know he was a man now, a simple man, that could be hurt and wounded, pushed and pressed, brought down. He hadn't been beaten, but also hadn't been able to bring that fear to the hearts of those that should be frightened of him. Things had escalated, like Gordon said they would; suddenly he had become more violent, more brutal… _meaner_. He had to, or he wouldn't be able to get what he needed, what he wanted.

And there was that terrible, awful feeling; a thought he had to struggle against, force out of his mind every night:

That, some day, someone _would_ be able to beat him. Someone would _break_ him, showing the world the man of mere flesh and blood he was.

He suited up in silence, inadvertently ignoring Alfred as pondered something about the party. Truth was, he didn't want to go through the dialogue he had had with that Selina Kyle once again in his brain, trying to unsuccessfully convince himself he hadn't been such a prick after all.

Now wasn't the time to trouble himself over Bruce Wayne's issues; Batman had a job to do, a thief to catch, and a long night ahead.

* * *

Get inside the Gallery was easy. There was an old air duct that had been deactivated and poorly closed, and she could access it without problems from the roof. Its intricate trail led her to a room next to the one where the crown was exposed, and she avoided security by using the movement sensor she had been able to drop inside a vase during the party.

She did it quickly, almost unemotionally: there wasn't even an alarm to dismantle, just the simple lock of the glass safe. Exactly as she had pictured, the security that night was laughable: the Gallery wasn't prepared to receive those pieces yet.

_Thanks again, Bruce Wayne. _

_

* * *

_

He saw her go inside. He could have gone after her just then. But he considered carefully his options, and realized that would put the security guards and the collection in unnecessary danger.

He could wait. He knew where he could ambush her, in a safer way for everybody.

And, of course, that way he could watch her for a while longer. See how she worked; that was entertaining indeed.

* * *

After that, the easy part: go home.

Or it used to be easy.

She used the small window of the bathroom, the only one that wouldn't be caught by any of the outside cameras simply because there was a tree that needed to have a few branches cut – just the kind of fortunate coincidence she loved to abuse. From there, climb a few feet to the roof, jump to other building and… voila. Safe return.

She reached the top of the Gallery without effort, happy to see that her "claws" were so useful when hiking. She was smiling when she reached the balustrade, absorbed in her own thoughts; so much that she almost missed him.

It was in a fraction of second, such a reflexive reaction that she could later say she actually moved before seeing it: three small, sharp little things shaped like bats – _how tacky_, she thought – flew at her coming from above. They aimed for her legs, she thought, and it was by pure luck that they missed her as she dived into the darkness below.

The fall was short. She managed to grab one of the branches of the tree that had already been useful before. From there, the ground, and the sound of the alarm inside the Gallery was already maddening loud: so much for a clean job.

There wasn't time to lose thinking about that, however; she heard voices and steps, and in seconds the shadows of two security guards coming straight at her. She could deal with that, no problem: it was that other shadow, larger, right above her, that could be troublesome.

Selina rolled on her back to the left, just in time to avoid his heavy landing. There he was, right next to her, that huge man in his strange outfit – not that she was in the place of making any judgments about that. She didn't waste a second: a nimble movement put her back to her feet, crotched in all fours, ready to strike.

"What took you so long, darling?" She heard herself speaking in a subtle, seductive voice that was so audacious and provocative that she couldn't believe it was coming from her own mouth. "Don't you like to dance…?"

That seemed to have an effect on him; he hesitated for a moment, and she saw his eyes, those concealed, dark eyes under the mask widening as he listen her soft, surprising words.

"Hm…", she murmured, "guess you're not used to talking, right? You're a man of _action_…"

He moved. No warning. A strike from his right hand that came like a flash, his left knee raising in search of her head – those were straight, _mean_ blows, and showed he wasn't playing. Neither was she: he would have to make a lot better if he wanted to catch her off guard. She used a forearm to protect from his hand, and an elbow on his knee; it was supposed to make him see stars if she had really connected, but it was the other way around. Her entire arm lost sensation, a shock ran all the way to her wrist, hand, fingers. That bastard was wearing a freaking body armor, and was strong as hell.

The night could have ended for her right there: the pain in her arm caused her to moan and she bit her lower lip to avoid a real scream. It was her turn to hesitate, and he didn't miss it; a kick came too close to her head, and she avoided it by pathetically falling on her back. _Over so soon?_, she remembered thinking.

But there were gunshots. The guards. She thought those were meant for her, but it was he that took those strikes. Two went right through his cape, leaving perfectly round holes that she could see against the light from above. One got caught in his armor, and she saw him clench his teeth and lose the air in his lungs. The fourth shot painted the ground bellow them in multiple and diminutive drops of splashed blood, a bullet that scratched his shoulder and grazed her thigh, ending buried somewhere in the tree behind them.

Despite the burning pain in her leg, she realized that was her chance – luck, lucky again. Forcing herself to stand, she sprinted for the brick wall that was merely ten feet away from her; a single jump and she grabbed its edge, finally taking a moment to look back when she reached the top: though on his knees, and probably unable to drawn a breath, he had managed to shelter himself from the gunshots the guards kept sending.

She smiled:

"Good luck, sweetheart. Don't forget to practice your dance steps."

She blew him a kiss.

And then she was gone.


	2. Back Home

A short chapter, for a change. I actually had a chapter 2 quite longer planned, but thought it would be interesting to keep it restrict to what happened when the characters returned home. It's not eventful, but it's revealing, I think.

Thank you for being here! Have fun, review!

AliaAtreidesBr

* * *

She arrived at her brownstone feeling worn out, in pain, and very happy.

No matter the wound in her leg, from where blood flow; no matter the pain in her arm, her elbow swollen to the point she couldn't move even her fingers without causing dire agony. No matter that her plan hadn't gone exactly as she had wished.

She had the crown. She had faced Batman, and she still got the crown.

* * *

His final count was five shots. He had taken five shots, and two of those had been direct shots at his armor – they hurt like a son of a bitch.

It was the one shot on his back that had allowed her to escape: he had lost it for a second, his world dark, his mind blank. He remembered how it was impossible to draw a breath, and the torture of moving his body to get shelter behind a tree. That's when he was shot _again_, this one straight at his ribcage, a mortal wound hadn't he been using an armor that was five times more resistant than a Kevlar vest. Two ribs broken, nonetheless, a hematoma that covered most part of his left flank, and a nauseating pain every time he breathed.

But nothing mattered. Not that, not the pain and the wounds – what really killed him was the fact that she had _escaped_. Taking the crown. Smiling.

* * *

Alone in her bathroom, naked inside her bathtub.

She had never been good with stitches, and do them with her left hand just made it worst.

It had to be done, though: that shot had gone through the soft skin of her thigh and it was deep, half an inch at least. That wouldn't stop bleeding unless she did something about it.

She applied pressure and took a bath – her entire body ached, she noticed. Scratches on her back from the fall she took, bruises on her legs. Her right arm, impossible to move it. Taking a careful look she concluded it wasn't broken, thank goodness, but Selina wondered if she was capable of taking care of it herself.

_For_ _tonight_, she concluded, _it has to be enough_.

She boiled water and sterilized needles and line. Washed her hands and her leg, and sat inside the bathtub – it would be easier to clean the mess after she was done, at least. Taking a deep breath, she pierced her own pale skin, watching the blood pour as she pulled the line and brought together her torn flesh. It was painful, sure, but, just like everything else in her life, she could take it.

* * *

Alfred tended his wounds in silence, and Bruce was grateful.

The butler would have every right, Bruce thought, of saying "I told you so". He had always warned Bruce the party at the Gallery was risky, and he was right. It had all gone wrong, so wrong, and now Bruce wondered if he wasn't to blame for that crown being stolen just as much as that thief… that Catwoman.

"Did I mention she was wearing a costume?"

Alfred turned his attention from Bruce's shoulder and frowned:

"A costume?"

"Yes", Bruce moved his fingers through his damp hair, then rubbing his palm across his face. "Dressed like… a cat!"

"A cat?" Alfred smirked. "I wouldn't say it's awfully original, sir, but it certainly is appropriate."

"Appropriate?"

"Well, sir… costumed vigilantes and criminals seem to be the current… zeitgeist." He leaned to exam Bruce's back, his mere touch causing the man who was Batman to flinch. "Does it hurt?", he asked, quite rhetorically.

"Not much."

"'Not much'… it must be excruciating, than. Master Bruce, next time you run into this Cat-lady, be sure to tell her she is special indeed."

"Why?"

"She just condemned you to bed rest, that's why."

Bruce laughed:

"No, Alfred, I'm sorry… Batman doesn't get to rest, and neither does Bruce Wayne – not without raising suspicions." He left the chair and began to dress his shirt.

"Sir", Alfred pleaded, "you were _shot_. Your vest may have saved your life, but it's not safe to walk around with broken ribs."

"As long as I can walk around, Alfred, I don't see reason to stay still."

"Well, sir", he gravely said, "it's to avoid seeing you _permanently_ incapable that I dare suggest you take a few nights, at least _one_ night, to sleep and rest."

"Yes, we've had this conversation before." Bruce seemed exasperated. "Nothing has changed since then."

"Oh, no, sir. Lots of things have changed – except for you and your mission, of course."

"And that's all that matters."

His tone was final, and didn't admit debate.

* * *

Doctor Thomas Elliot - fabulous, rich, smart, handsome - entered his home and closed the front door behind him. He walked to his living room – beautiful, fancy, pleasant – and grabbed a bottle of scotch. There he removed his tuxedo – expensive, gorgeous, perfect – and carefully left it over the sofa.

Naked, he walked out of that wonderful room and went down stairs, him and his bottle, to his favorite place in that magnificent, ideal house of his: the basement. No, the _hidden_ basement. The only place that was truly his.

Mother would be pleased if she was alive. She would find the remodeling of the house lovely, though she probably would have a few things to say against his furniture pick. Nevertheless, she would agree he had done a fine job, especially with the garden. Oh, how she would have _loved_ the garden, that mean bitch.

He was glad she wasn't around to spoil anything.

The basement, of course, he had built himself. All alone, just as he liked. It wasn't anything _sophisticated_, but it served him well. Really well.

It was sound proof, cold, dark if he wanted to, bright if he wished. A small room, yes, but it had all he needed: the operation table, the scalpels, the needles, the drugs. The chains. He loved going in there, he trembled in pleasure as he entered the room and felt the cool air around him, the smell of chemicals and blood. Oh, it was exquisite.

He would put on his gloves and scrub caps, but rarely anything else. He loved being naked while working. He loved the feeling of small drops of blood and shards of bone over his skin, sometimes in unexpected places. Yes, there was a risk: no matter that he shaved his entire body and roughly brushed his skin to clean himself of dead tissue, it was always possible that something was left behind…

He did his best, however, and the truth was that he absolutely couldn't spoil his fun. He lived for those little moments, and it wouldn't be a simple, mere _possibility_ that would stop him. Besides, he knew he would eventually get caught. In a year, in three years, in ten. They would get to him. _Bruce_ would get to him.

Then again, that was part of the fun also.

As he entered his beloved little room, he thought of Bruce. Of his expensive, equally sick obsession. He was sure Wayne also had his not-so-little room somewhere, perhaps in many places, where he kept his treasures and had permission to be himself. _We all have our little secrets, right, Bruce?_

He didn't turn on all the lights, just those few lamps near the door. It was enough. In twilight, he could see her well; her beautiful, naked body, lying immobile over the table. Poor, sweet girl. So young, so soft and lovely. He didn't remember her name, but would always remember how she struggled and fought. Her screams of despair, her anguished cry.

All and all, it had been a great week.

Too bad she hadn't been able to stick with him for a while longer… that night, just before the party, she had finally died. Beautifully, of course, loudly, painfully. Like he had planned. He was good with that, with those plans of his. Almost as good as he was with a scalpel in his hand, or in playing chess.

Now, now it was time to let her go. Say his goodbyes, and drop her somewhere. Perhaps near her house – wouldn't it be fantastic if the girl's mother was the first to see her like that? Not that she would be able to recognize her immediately, but…

And that was precisely the final touch, the last line of his sonnet, his happy ending: see the confusion and complete lack of clues the police had, how they had no idea what so ever of what was going on. "Another dead girl", the newspapers would report. Is it a serial killer? Is there a monster wandering in the streets Gotham? Who's this pervert, sick person that is attacking all these good girls in this supposedly safer Gotham of Batman?

He laughed, alone in his little room. "Safer" Gotham. Right.

The stupidity of Gotham's citizens was amazing, no doubt. How foolish one must be to miss the obvious signs that clearly denounced Bruce Wayne was Batman? And, apparently, no one but himself, Thomas Elliot, had been able to see it. It was no surprise, then, that people had actually thought that a man in a costume could fight crime and actually make that decadent, despicable city a better place. No surprise that they couldn't see the obvious: Batman wasn't a savior, someone able to _change_ the town… he was merely a symptom, the very proof that Gotham was beyond help.

And how absurd of Bruce to try something like that! How deeply disturbed he must be, how in need of a large dose of drugs! And yet, how amusing; how spontaneous and, in some level, brilliant.

Tommy bet there was an interesting story behind all that, something that had actually happened and changed the old Bruce he knew… once upon a time, he had been just a kid, perhaps smarter than most, but nothing that could be said to be genius material. He couldn't compete with Tommy, that's for sure. He was a rich kid, with some potential and a lot of angst – a long way from dressed like a winged, ugly mammal, and fighting alone the damn mafia.

Then again, Batman had quite the fame as a detective, but Elliot had not seen much of that yet. That was his third girl, and not a single sign of Batman being close to find out who was dismembering and gutting all those pretty and young women. Did he even notice it? Well, if to take by Bruce's attitude, no, he hadn't.

Maybe serial killers and dead young women wasn't in Bruce's level – so be it. He was having too much fun with that right now, and wasn't in a rush to let it go. Truth was, he didn't _believe_ Batman could do anything about it. Oh, maybe in the tenth, twentieth girl. Maybe when he decided to wear a preposterous mask and give himself a pathetic little nickname. Or maybe when Bruce's ridiculous self-pity and guilt for Rachel's death had wear off.

Meanwhile, he would just enjoy the ride, thank you very much.


	3. The Day After

Morning came. Too fast, in Selina's opinion. Those few hours of sleep hardly helped – if anything, it had only made everything worst.

If she thought she had been in pain the night before, now she realized it had been a drastic overstatement. In the morning, after the adrenaline had worn off – oh, now _that's_ pain.

And she looked like shit – great.

The mirror that had, hours earlier, showed her elegant, desirable body, now reflected just a tired, pale, messy replica of herself. Heavy eyelids, purple pouches under her green eyes, soggy, oily hair that pointed every direction but those it should. Her arm swollen, unrecognizable, practically dead on her side – move her elbow an inch and tears would come to her eyes. Her leg, just a little better: less painful, much uglier. The stitches could have been done by Dr. Frankenstein, and she doubt it would look any worst. Yes, darling, that would definitely leave a scar.

Her whole body ached. Interesting; she was no strange to the act of physically straining her body, but the night before had showed her she needed to reach a new, higher level. Fair enough. She would get there. In time, mornings after long nights confronting Batman wouldn't be as painful.

Today, however, all she wanted was to rest and sleep in…

Impossible. It was Saturday, and on Saturdays the store would be open – it was the busiest day of the week, actually. Liam and Claire needed help, and it would be awfully strange if she called in sick. And all she _didn't_ need was rumors that, just after the crown was stolen, she had taken the day off.

* * *

Bruce would have loved to say he had slept, but that would be a lie.

Perhaps he had managed to close his eyes for a few minutes, but that was all. The pain of his wounds would be the natural excuse, but that was wishful thinking; if it _was_ the pain, he could have taken painkillers. He could have tried Zen techniques that could relief pain, or help him ignore it. Really, if it was pain, he would eventually overcome it. The problem was, it wasn't about that.

Morning came and he found no relief: the party and the robbery of the crown were all over the news. Alfred even told him his phone wouldn't stop ringing, and that reporters, even the police, were trying to reach him. Still, Alfred laughed:

"And you were right after all, sir: they _are_ calling her Cat-woman."

Bruce simply frowned, and the stern expression remained there for a long time. It was there when he told Alfred to tell every reporter and police officer he was resting from an epic hang over; it was there when he didn't answer Tommy Elliot's call in his cell phone; it was there when he barely touched his breakfast; it was there when he allowed his bandages to be changed and had his injuries examined again.

And what kept it there, Bruce was shocked to find out, wasn't simply Batman's monumental failure of the previous night – it was also Selina Kyle.

* * *

She spent her morning at work mostly at her office, the one at the second floor of her store. It was fortunate indeed that the previous owner seemed to have need of his privacy, because, otherwise, she would have been answering silly questions about the Gallery's party all day. Both Claire and Liam were very curious, and had a thousand questions about the food, the drinks, the people, even the crown – the robbery was already all over the news, just like Catwoman. Who would have guessed that security cameras could provide so many interesting angles of her _ballet_ with Batman?

The fact that she was a mess didn't escape the observant eyes of her employees, something she explained by giving the usual excuse of "too much wine". And although she had chosen an outfit of pants and long-sleeved blouse – in Gotham's summer! -, she didn't avoid Claire's pity face and question:

"Oh, the poor thing! What happened to your arm, Miss Kyle?"

"You know", she explained, a sassy smile from behind her sunglasses, "stairs and alcohol… bad combination."

Claire agreed by nodding, but her expression remained concerned. "But don't you think you should go to the doctor? Maybe Dr. Elliot could take a look…"

_Sure_, Selina thought, _that's just what I need. Thomas Elliot examining my arm…_

In fact, she had been ignoring his phone calls the entire morning, and had no intention of answering it anytime soon. Probably never, actually.

"It's not that bad, darling… looks worst then it feels."

That was a lie, of course, but it pleased Selina to notice that Claire had let it go after that.

From time to time she would go downstairs at the store and help, but she mostly remained at the office, even able to take a half an hour nap. After that, when she washed her face and finally put on some make-up, she felt refreshed, and concluded she didn't look a complete mess anymore. She was still tired and sore, but now she could remain on her feet for more than five minutes, and fake a believable smile. At half past two, she finally decided it was time to turn her attention to her business woman act, and help with those clients.

"There you are, Ms. Kyle", said an euphoric Claire as Selina entered the room. "I was just about to go upstairs and get you!"

Selina didn't have to ask why – just behind the girl he was, the client that apparently demanded her presence: Bruce Wayne.

* * *

She was a very straight forward person, Bruce would give her that; it didn't matter that, as she approached him, he casually asked her how was her night, and it didn't matter that, as she silently stood there, coldly staring at him, he tried to break the silence by suggesting his interest in a very expensive statue of an ugly elephant he had no use for; she merely watched him for a few moments and, ignoring his chit-chat and his questions, bluntly asked:

"What do you want, Mr. Wayne?"

He smiled, and figured it had probably been a bad move – she frowned in response. Still he insisted, a careless tone and an unworried expression:

"Like I said, Selina… I think I need to change some of the old furniture and redesign a few things at the manor, so…"

"In my office", she said, and started to walk towards the staircase she had just came down.

He felt puzzled for a second, but decided it wasn't worth the question. Whatever reason she had to take him to her office, he would take advantage of it: to apologize wasn't something he was used to do, and trying to do it in public seemed even more uncomfortable.

He followed her in silence, up the stairs and inside the room: it was small but also cozy, with a couch and a couple chairs, plus a diminutive desk that had a phone and a pen. A laptop laid closed over the sofa, a Mac that seemed brand new. Her purse, he figured, was over the chair closer to the desk – an all black, simple Louis Viton. She likes good, expensive and plain, he mentally noted, information that might be useful if he ever intended to buy her something – he realized that maybe he _should_ have brought her a gift, maybe flowers, maybe jewelry… wasn't that the best way to apologize to women? Suddenly, he felt stupid: how many times had he spend too much trying to please women he didn't care a bit for, opposed to the ones he actually had reason to?

Judging from the severe expression in her features, though, perhaps it had been for the best:

"Again", she said, and now her tone showed no effort for politeness, or care for how loud she sounded, "what do you want?"

He couldn't avoid noticing how different she looked from the night before: at the gala she had been a glamorous, heavenly thing, an angel glowing in her expensive dress, someone out of a fairy tale. Now, however, as she dressed and behaved like her everyday self, he was able to see so much more. It was relief he felt, looking at her and seeing how beautiful she was, _really_ was, no make-up and fancy clothes required. She seemed smarter, more aggressive, even more – actually, a _lot_ more - natural, he thought. He sensed that he had, last night, caught but just a glimpse of the real Selina Kyle, had seen a shadow of who she really was. And he had been wrong, he now realized. All he had assumed about her, all that had lead him to wonder if she was with Tommy because of his money, all was wrong.

She didn't need money. In fact, he was having trouble to see why she even took interest in Tommy at all.

"Well", he answered, "other than the fact that I was looking for antiques…"

"Please", she interrupted him, rolling her eyes and seating on one of the chairs, "don't try to bullshit me, Mr. Wayne. I've dealt with bullshitters so much more talented than you, you have no idea. You're just pissing me off."

He took a deep breath. For some reason, he couldn't doubt her last statement. She did seem to be good at seeing through lies, what made everything a lot more complicated, he realized.

"Okay." Recognizing defeat. That was also something new for him. "I came here to apologize."

There was a brief smirk and an intrigued glance:

"Why?"

For a moment he didn't grasp the meaning of the question. _Why?_, he asked himself. It was a relevant point, perhaps more than Selina could guess. He had dragged himself there, his blue polo shirt hiding bandages that covered his chest and abdomen, and pain that made difficult for him to breathe, even more so walk, climb stairs and stand there. And yet, there he was, against better judgment.

"I don't know", he declared. "I guess I… I feel bad about last night. And what I did."

Now he didn't know if he meant his rude behavior towards Selina or his failure as Batman – in truth, he knew it wasn't possible to actually draw a line between those things. Though he wished with all his heart he could.

The expression in her features told him nothing; she scrutinized him in silence and her face gave no clues of what could be in her mind. Immobile on her seat, green eyes sparkling even under the pale and insufficient light of that little office – he thought it was strange how Selina just didn't… _fit_. She owned the place, sure, and didn't actually seem uncomfortable, but still seemed like an odd match. It just wasn't _her_, the store, the antiques, the everyday job of trying to talk people into buying something that was, ultimately, useless and overpriced. Not that he thought she wouldn't make a good salesman - she was clearly smart and seductive enough -, but still…

"It doesn't matter", she bluntly affirmed.

"It matters", he insisted. "I was rude. And judgmental. Unfair, even."

"Yeah, well… you probably were. But you were not the first, won't be the last. I'm used to it, Mr. Wayne…" She moved her shoulders in a gesture meant to dismiss the insignificance of his words, but something caused her to halt mid-movement and flinch. Pain? Yes, it was pain – it seemed she didn't want him to notice it, however. _There_, he privately pointed out, _tensing her jaw, left hand closed in a fist. She even paled… it must be pretty hurtful._

Should he say something? The thought crossed his mind, but that would most definitely ruin his chances of making peace. He knew very few things about her, but he knew this: she hated, just _hated_ to be pitied. And he, of all people, could relate to that.

"Maybe you're used to it", he gravely said, "but that doesn't make it less wrong for me. I can't take it back, but I assure you… it won't happen again."

"Great." Her answer was quick and brusque, far from what he expected – no, not really expected, but idealized – as response for his monumental effort to apologize. "I… I'm touched, honestly. Apologies accepted."

Somehow, to his own surprise, he smirked. She frowned:

"Is there a problem?"

"No, no, not at all… I… I just…"

"What?"

He took a deep breath – it was his turn to disguise the sharp pain that, was he alone, would have ripped a shameful moan from his usually impassive self. He managed a cough to cover it, and turned to reach the door behind him, allowing him a cautious movement to rub his punished ribcage. While she had only his back to stare at, he spoke:

"I hope you can _honestly_ forgive me someday, Selina."

He mumbled a goodbye before closing the door behind him. He also took a moment to recompose before going down stairs: those wounds were really painful, yes, but that was alright. Things with Selina, those were far from okay – and it was a huge shock to realize that he truly wanted them to be.

* * *

Selina too took a deep breath, but managed to do it after Bruce Wayne left her tiny office. A wave of relief engulfed her, only now allowing her to understand how tense she had been. _Why?_, she asked herself. Wayne was just another guy. She had met dozens like him, hadn't she? _Dozens_, maybe more. From all over the world and in every circumstance one could picture. From guys like him, she had had everything and anything she could ever imagine or desire. What about Bruce Wayne? _He was just another guy_.

And yet…

The fact he had come all the way there to apologize surprised her, but it didn't touch her. Not really. Men, as far as she knew, were often like that: they screw up, they say they are sorry, they screw up again. And so on. It's not too hard to say you're sorry, even if you're not. It's also far easier to apologize and forget than actually fix what's broken.

Apologies? No, that's not very impressive.

Yes, but there was more.

Inside that office, just the two of them, she thought that she had seen something different. A different _man_.

He even looked like a _good_ man.

Was that an act? She doubted it. She couldn't risk it, however. She couldn't risk _her_ act. She couldn't be heart melted by the first rich boy that had an epiphany and wanted to reinvent himself as a decent guy. Or maybe, maybe he really was fairly decent all along, but liked, needed to pretend he wasn't. Which was, at least for now, more than her tired mind and broken body could deal with – there were enough oddities and twisted things in her life already to make room for someone that could deal with his issues by paying five hundred bucks an hour to a shrink, right?

Besides, she had a feeling about Bruce Wayne. She couldn't really put it into words, explain it clearly to herself, but she had the feeling that he was _trouble_. Maybe it was because she knew, like half the world did, what happened to his parents when he was a kid – she too had lost her mother in a brutal way, and it was impossible for her to believe that a child could go through something like that and turn into a shallow playboy that hadn't a care in life. Bruce Wayne, she pondered, had a very convincing act going on, one that fooled most people pretty well… but that was an act. That handsome face and striking smile? That was a _mask_, darling, just an expensive and well cared mask.

Maybe, with something quite ugly behind it.

* * *

"Bruce, Bruce…", muttered Dr. Thomas Elliot to himself, "… you are such a son of a bitch, aren't you?"

And a _predictable_ son of a bitch, of all things. That rat bastard had been ignoring Tommy's phone calls all day, and had instructed Alfred to give another lame excuse about too many drinks and women. Right… even if he didn't know any better, Tommy had been at the party the entire night and witnessed Bruce's behavior: he had merely sipped from that single glass of wine, and hadn't come near a single woman. He just wished he could tell Bruce how pathetic and old that little act was quickly becoming.

He couldn't, though. It wasn't how their little _game _should be played. In this game, Bruce was supposed to remain oblivious to Tommy's cunning and, in the end, at their final match, he would make Bruce understand; he would _show _him that, Batman or no Batman, hero or villain, there's someone _better_ than him. Always.

There was something about Bruce, _something_ that had constantly made him look so special and great... He had always attracted sympathy, he was the one kid everybody wanted to be – well, almost everybody, that is. He could picture Bruce at fifteen: his perfect grades, perfect looks, perfect life. Oh, sure. People would often feel _sorry_ for little Bruce, despite all that. He had lost his _parents_, poor thing. Ha! How was that a problem, Thomas Elliot was never able to get.

That Wayne's parents weren't like Tommy's own crappy parents was a given – an abusive drunken of a father and a crazy, bitter woman as a mother was pretty easy to beat -, but they had their issues, of course. _Everybody_ has secrets. Especially in Gotham's high society. Surely, had Thomas and Martha Wayne lived longer, Bruce would have realized that life was so much easier, so much more enjoyable without them; they had left Bruce all he needed: tons of money, good genes and an English slave. How could life be gentler to Bruce Wayne?

And yet, it had been.

Bruce at fifteen? Ironically, surrounded by love. The girls, the teachers, their colleagues. Everybody wanted to be around him or just _be _the guy. He was good at everything, it seemed: math, history, football, fencing. He was tall, he always had the right clothes, he had a smile that caused girls to shriek in frenzy if it was turned at their direction. And, of course, his greatest weapon: a dark side.

He didn't show it often, but it was there. A sad story, and the little boy forever changed by it. Pity looks and broken hearts. Admiration for a kid that, despite having so much money and such a good excuse to be troubled, turned out to be a _good_ kid, an _example_, as so many teachers put it, the name to feature on honor halls, one to be remembered.

"Oh, Bruce, you're such a boy scout, aren't you?"

He was. Let credit be given to those who deserve it: Bruce really never cared much about other people opinion, perhaps with one or two exceptions. Rachel, of course. The butler, maybe. And mom and dad, obviously, the two most idealized and perfect man and woman that walked on this Earth. And they were _always_ watching from up there, weren't they?

Little Bruce really had to be a good boy, hadn't he?

"You are a seriously screwed up person, my friend…"

That's why Thomas knew. He _knew_ Bruce wouldn't stay home and just rest as he surely should have rested after that long night at the Gallery – rounds one and two. No, sir… Bruce had something to _fix_, didn't he? After all, mom and dad would be so very disappointed with little Bruce for what he had done to that pretty lady last night… What a bad boy!

Oh, Bruce didn't know, but Tommy had, in fact, seen and heard Bruce and Selina's brief dialogue the night before. Sure, they were too busy with each other to notice silly Thomas Elliot wandering on their surroundings while they argued. Yes, he had seen everything. He saw, and he got it.

"The most gorgeous woman in town, Bruce… you wouldn't let Thomas Elliot have her, would you?"

Tommy knew where Bruce would go; he didn't even bother to follow him from home. He simply drove to downtown and parked close to Selina's store. Half an hour later, guess who entered the place?

Thomas considered going inside, but that would be an unnecessary stretch of luck. Besides, what difference did it make? Selina was too proud, Bruce was stubborn. Or maybe was the other way around. Regardless, he had no doubt Bruce would leave the store just as he left: unhappy and taken by guilt. That was how he rolled, lots of guilt feelings and incapable of finding pleasure in small things…

Dr. Thomas Elliot, however, couldn't be more different. Remorse was an alien word for him, thank the gods. And he found pleasure quite easily: pain and death were goods he had no lack of in this world.

He saw, from the comfortable front seat of his Jaguar, when Bruce left the store. Not twenty minutes had passed, and Wayne's expression was gloomy and tired – things had gone badly, Tommy guessed. Just as expected.

There was comfort in that, Tommy realized. It was fail materialized. Oh, Tommy would have given anything to be there last night, when that crazy whore humiliated Batman and stole the crown. But watching Bruce's unsuccessful visit to Selina today, well, at least that was pretty fun.

All and all, he had a nice and pleasant afternoon.


	4. Casual Afternoon

**Gotham City – 18 years ago**

"Selina", mother called her that night, "go to the store and buy ice cream, will you?"

Mother dropped a dozen coins over the girl's lap on her way to the bedroom, where she landed heavily on her bed.

Selina blinked rapidly, somewhat confused: permission to spend their money on ice cream was an extraordinary circumstance under any point of view. Just two days ago she had begged her mother for a simple snow cone, and got nothing but a snort of despise. So many changes, and in so few hours…

"Are you gone already?" There were hints of impatience and anger in mother's tone, and Selina collected the coins quickly and ran to the door.

"Yes", she yelled just before closing the front door behind her.

She covered the stairs from the third floor to the hall in less than thirty seconds; Selina was merely seven years old, but had long ago mastered the art of jumping three to five steps in a single movement. _You are a bad girl_, her mother would often comment, _just can't behave like a lady, can you? _The lady-like behavior really was a mystery to Selina – did that mean she would have to be like mother?

If so, she was pretty sure she didn't want to be a lady _at all_.

Selina knew her mother tried really hard. That's why, she figured, mother was always so tired and sad. She worked so hard, didn't she? All day long at the diner, waitressing tables; and at nights, always having people over to visit. Mostly men – though, sometimes, Wanda, the neighbor, would come over and stay up all night talking loud and smoking, mom and her laughing hysterically and keeping Selina awake. Those were the _worst_ nights.

Mother's male friends weren't unpleasant, Selina thought. Most of them were polite, and rarely bothered her. All they ever did was go to mother's room and stay there, and their noises weren't nearly as loud as that stupid Wanda's laugh. Every once in a while one of them would even give Selina a gift. One of them gave her five dollars once, but mother made her give it back and told the man he wasn't allowed to visit them anymore. _Ever_. Selina didn't understand why; when she asked, mother just started crying, and told her to shut up.

The truth was, mother used to cry a lot. Just the day before, when that guy William came over and he and mother had a fight, she had cried all night long. It was a pity, Selina thought; William was a nice man, and mother liked him a lot. She had heard mother tell Wanda just last week that William wanted to get a new apartment for both Selina and mother, and that he would take care of them. _Can you imagine_, she had listened the happiness in mother's voice, _if I don't ever have to live in this shithole anymore? _

Something went wrong, though; last night, William told mom they shouldn't keep seeing each other anymore. Something about his wife. And his kids. And his job.

That's why Selina would buy vanilla ice cream. She liked chocolate better, but mother loved vanilla. And she was so sad. So sad she didn't go to work, so sad that she never bothered to walk Selina to school, like she did every day. She just stayed in bed. She didn't eat, she didn't watch tv, she didn't even speak a single word all day. It wasn't the first time mother had been like that, of course, but still…

She deserved vanilla.

At the store, Mr. Gonzales gave her the change for the ice cream and a free Snickers bar. He was nice, Mr. Gonzales; sometimes, if mother was late from work, she would hang out at his store and he would let her read the comics. He was very surprised, two years ago, when she told him she could read.

Ice creams melted fast, but Selina didn't go upstairs back to her apartment immediately. She sat on the steps at the entrance of her building and ate her chocolate. She was young, yes, but she already knew that life's good moments were few and they should be enjoyed. She did the best out of it: eating her Snickers bite by bite, slowly appreciating the sweetness of that precious and unexpected gift.

That was because, at this point, she didn't know her mother was upstairs slashing her wrists and dying, a pool of blood soaking the sheets under her, her eyes wide open and staring blankly at the ceiling, the scene Selina would contemplate in a minute or so, and that would be forever printed in her mind.

* * *

**Gotham City - Now**

She was at the small bistro, just three blocks from her townhouse. Friday was when she took the afternoon off: late lunch, catching up with her reading, shopping. Mundane things, ordinary, and yet, necessary.

Her lunch was merely green salad and a glass of white wine – nothing fancy, just enough to recover her energies and help her relax. Even though she had no real interest in her antique shop, she still had to manage it in a way that didn't denounce her lack of concern for a business that was far from giving her profit. She did the basics, and delegated as much as she could without evidencing how much she did not care; and just that turned out to be exhausting for her, those small and uninteresting problems and issues she had to deal with everyday.

Sure, her nocturnal life was also to blame; ever since the Gallery she had developed a growing attraction for Gotham's night and its dark side. She had been on the hunt for a new target, and that demanded so much from her; that kind of job demand could be classified as a _field_ research, so to speak. And that, that meant rooftops, alarm systems, security observation. Long nights. Sometimes, boring nights.

And she didn't meet _him_ again, damn it. Him – the Batman.

Selina speculated, sometimes. What was he up to? It had been exactly three weeks since the crown, and she was constantly looking over her shoulder, anticipating the moment he would jump on her and demand the object back. The police was _also _trying to get it back, or so the papers and the tv said. She had seen her own image reproduced so many times, that footage from the security cameras all over the news, and the internet, and everywhere she looked, it seemed. It had been a nightmare, at first: she suddenly found herself expecting that someone would recognize her, denounce her in public, or even try to blackmail her. Those were tense days, no doubt.

After a week or so, however, she realized that wouldn't happen. Not that it couldn't ever happen, but… well, nobody seemed interested in that right now. It didn't really matter _who_ Catwoman was; all that mattered was what she had _done_, how she had managed to make the Batman look… well, a little foolish. She had blown him a kiss, after all. A _kiss_!

Truth was, Catwoman was a superstar. Selina wondered if people even remembered what she had stolen that night.

Batman, however, he probably remembered it fine. And she had the feeling he wasn't one to easily forget. Or forgive.

It had been three weeks already, though. Her wounds had healed completely; even her arm was back to normal now – she had often pondered, on those first few days after the Gallery robbery, if her elbow would ever feel normal again. Time heals everything, people often say; she didn't agree to that, but in this case…

"Hi there", she heard someone greet her. He had approached her unnoticed – again. This time, however, she knew who was behind her before turning to check.

"Hello, Mr. Wayne."

He looked so elegant in his fancy tailor-made suits, she privately admitted. The one he was wearing now was a dark-blue pinstriped, a wise match to that dark crimson tie, soft silk over his white shirt.

"Miss Kyle", he replied. "That's a nice surprise", he hesitated, "isn't it?"

She was somewhat surprised to notice his presence there didn't bother her, after all.

"It is." She closed her book – it wasn't like she was _reading_ it, anyway.

He gestured towards the chair next to her:

"Are you waiting for someone?"

She couldn't help a sardonic smirk. "Definitely _not_ waiting for anyone… but, please, feel free to… join me. If you're not in a hurry, that is."

_Why am I doing this?_, she considered. It was almost two o'clock, and Selina had a few places to visit and things to do. Besides, that was Bruce Wayne right there: the man that had taken turns insulting her and apologizing, Gotham's post picture of the rich and shallow, and a celebrity of sorts. She should keep her distance, if anything. Certainly not invite him to sit.

Then again, wouldn't it be _rude_ if she just blew him away? Perhaps a little suspicious? And isn't a relationship with the most powerful man in Gotham, as superficial as it could be, useful? It had been thanks to him, after all, that she had been able to steal that wonderful crown… and meet Batman, of course.

And he did have a charming smile. When he smiled, which wasn't very often – it softened his features.

"I was going to meet someone for lunch", he was telling her just as he sat on the empty chair, "but she had an emergency and couldn't make it."

"Hm… See, Mr. Wayne, I'm not sure I'm interested in filling in for your date…"

"Oh, no", he immediately added, apparently with honest consternation as he tried to explain himself. "No, no, it wasn't like that… she… _she_ wasn't a date. It's an old friend, that's all…"

"Old friend? Do wealthy playboys actually have _female_ friends?"

He pursed his lips. "Mrs. Dawson… she used to work for my parents. When I was a boy. She's… family."

One of the waitresses approached, a silly smile as she showed Bruce the menu. "I'll just have what the lady's having", he gently said while refusing the girl's offer.

"It's just a salad…" Selina declared.

"That's fine."

She watched the waitress leave, noticing how the girl went straight to one of her colleagues for a few laughs and gossip about the notorious Bruce Wayne. _Dear God, it must be awful to live with this all the time._ She turned her attention to Bruce; he seemed oblivious to what had happened, unaware of the attention his mere presence there was attracting: people glancing over their shoulders to look at them, strangers stopping outside to pick through the glass.

"How do you cope?"

"Sorry?" He seemed genuinely confused about what the topic was.

"How do you deal with _this_? People staring, taking pictures, calling you by name… This celebrity thing. It seems so… _annoying_. And invasive. Really, I don't know what I would do."

"Oh." He looked down to his empty plate and seemed to ponder for a moment. "Well, I guess it's just how things _are_. Like it has always been. When you are a Wayne, in Gotham… there's really no way around this."

"I can only imagine, and just that is already bothering me. I can't picture myself unable to walk peacefully around Gotham, wandering through the streets. It's silly, but…"

"It's not silly", he gravely said. "I know what you mean. That _freedom_, the possibility of getting yourself lost in the city, just another person among so many… and then you can be… yourself. Do and say what you really want to, what you actually _mean_. No worries about what people could _think_; no second-guessing everything you _do_. No pretending; no _masks_."

Selina stared at him for a second, suddenly finding herself without words. "_No masks"_. He had no idea what that meant for her, did he? To be able to be _free_? Without _masks_? Not in this world. Not for her. She was no celebrity, at least Selina Kyle wasn't… but the way she had chosen to live her life, so many years ago, meant she had to mind her steps at all times. She liked to think of herself as a free spirit, no roots and no strings attached, able to come and go as she pleased… except that she didn't. That wasn't true. She had a clandestine life, and had never been able to be completely honest with anyone in her life. It was a _good_ life, sure, but it was also a lonely, uncertain life.

A dangerous life.

"Well", she finally said, managing to produce something to distract Bruce's attentive eyes, now studying her so intensely, "I suppose no one is completely satisfied with the life one has, right? You're Gotham's golden boy, and still…"

"To be Gotham's 'golden boy', as you call it… well, let's say it hasn't made my life any easier."

She didn't doubt that.

"Here's your salad, Mr. Wayne!" The waitress. The silly smile again, and she even blinked an eye in a sassy gesture while serving Bruce's food. Selina took a deep breath.

"So", Bruce said, "how's Tommy doing?"

That was a fortunate change of subject – she could deal with those indirect questions of a guy fishing for information any day, anytime.

"I don't know, Mr. Wayne… I was hoping you could tell me, actually."

"Please, call me Bruce, Selina." He frowned. "And do you mean…?"

"… that I haven't seen Tommy Elliot in a while, yes. We spoke over the phone a few times, of course, but we didn't manage to… get together. I have been busy these last few weeks, and it seems that so was he…"

_Busy_ wasn't the most fair word to define her situation, Selina privately admitted. The days following her adventure at the Gallery were not so much busy as they were painful, and the fact that Thomas Elliot was a doctor contributed to her fears that he would be able to tell there was something obviously wrong with her. She shamefully avoided him, ignoring calls and exchanging a few messages, finally telling him she would be out of town for a few days when he reveled himself as annoyingly insistent. That had calmed him down, it seemed, and after a couple weeks, when she felt much better and her scars had healed enough to be explained by any simple accident, she had risked a phone call. Her intentions were innocent: all she wanted was to keep a friendly relationship with that preeminent gothamite. Thomas Elliot, however, proved to be much more sensible than most womanizers usually were – although he took her call promptly, he was vaguely cold during their conversation, and spontaneously told her he would be attending a congress of neurosurgeons in Metropolis, making himself unavailable for the next week or so.

It was hard to admit, but that had bothered her. Not so much because Dr. Elliot had, though very politely, blown her off – truth was, this was expected. There were about a hundred other women in Gotham willing to go on a date with Tommy, and surely they would be much nicer and available than Selina. It didn't matter how gorgeous and interesting she was, there was only so much a guy like that could accept… and that was fine. She wasn't looking for a boyfriend. What had bothered her about that phone call, was something else…

The way he sounded. So _cold_. So different from what she had seen so far. Like it was another person, absolutely opposed to the gentle, funny guy that took her to that party. Over the phone he was polite, yes, but blunt. Unkind. Direct.

It had been so strange.

"Doctors", Bruce was saying. "They have unpredictable schedules, that's for sure. You wouldn't want to be a doctor's wife, would you? Phone calls in the middle of the night, long hours at the hospital…"

"Never thought about it, actually." Though she wouldn't be one to complain about busy nights, of course – considering her current line of work, that was a convenient trait for a boyfriend. "You should know, right? Wasn't your father a doctor?"

He assumed a thoughtful expression. "He was, actually. A surgeon in Gotham General…"

"People say he was a good one."

"He was. Very… devoted. He took his job seriously."

"As all good doctors should, right?"

He smiled – a sincere, spontaneous smile for a change. "Yes, indeed. It's one of those jobs… if you're not on the top of your game, people could get hurt."

"That's for sure." She drank from her wine, finishing the contents of her glass in a single gulp. "It's not for everyone. This life of… of working to _help_ people, living to save lives, perhaps it's a better way of putting it. It takes so much…" Selina found Bruce's eyes staring at her attentively, his expression denouncing he was curious about her conclusions. "Probably exhausting, but I guess it's also rewarding, or we wouldn't have so many people doing it. Surely it's not all about the money… or we wouldn't have people like your father becoming a doctor."

He nodded in silence.

"What about you, Bruce?"

"What about me?"

She was teasing him, of course, and he was pretending to not get it; Selina knew better than that, though – she was convinced that Bruce Wayne was far from being a fool, despite the fact that he always made an extra effort to look like one.

"Never wanted to follow your father's footsteps?"

He watched her in silent sternness for a moment. "Never", he finally admitted. "Never considered it. Like you said… I don't think I have what it takes. It's just… too much work."

_I don't believe you, Bruce_, were the words that immediately occurred to her. She almost spoke them – it wouldn't be a smart move, however, and so she kept them to herself. Bruce Wayne was an intriguing character, wasn't he? She knew he wanted to prove her he wasn't that shallow, superficial playboy, completely detached from the real world. Then why he still had to pretend to be _less_ than he actually was? Why keep that act? For whose benefit?

No doubt he was a good actor. She could almost buy his little number. _Almost_. Years and years around the world and walking among the fabulous, rich and famous had taught her a great deal about character reading, even more so because she also had vast experience dealing with the underworld scum of the black market, her greatest source of information and tools useful for her work. She knew people; she knew enough to understand that there were no good guys and no villains, just _people_, and make peace with it. Her world wasn't black and white, it never was, not even when she was a kid… especially when she was a kid. At the point she was in her life, Selina believed there wasn't much that could surprise her or confused.

Bruce Wayne did, though – she had never met a guy that worked so hard to conceal his qualities, and then suffered for it. Perhaps that was the reason she was, despite her efforts, beginning to _like_ that man.

"Let's get out of here", she told him.

* * *

"So", he asked, "where are we going?"

He watched as she smiled, that mischievous half-smile of hers. In most people, the gesture would look arrogant, and he would probably be aggravated by it – Selina's smile, though, was just adorable.

_Stop it_, he privately commanded. _She's dating Tommy_, he had to remind himself. Was she? Bruce wasn't so sure. Considering what she had told him, it was possible that Dr. Thomas Elliot had lost interest in Selina Kyle. The way he had treated her… Bruce knew one or two things about Tommy – despite appearances, he knew that Dr. Elliot was perfectly able to behave in a harsh, even cruel manner. In their childhood, he had witnessed Tommy's bursts of anger, and that could cause damage. Bruce thought that maybe his friend had grown out of it, but if he was to judge by what Selina told him… Ever since Tommy and he had reconnected Bruce had no reason to believe that his friend still could be so… mean. Was that the word he was looking for? Probably not, but it was true. Did that mean Elliot was really out of the picture? Or was it some sort of _game_? Just a way of keeping a girl hooked…?

He had no idea.

Truth was, he wasn't an expert in relationships, obviously. His focus had been somewhere else for a long time now, and it was also true that, as Bruce Wayne, he didn't have to make an effort: women came to him, not the other way around.

And there was Rachel, of course. Batman was where his energies and focal point were, but he knew the reason he had never been emotionally involved with other women was Rachel. It had been a long time since any other girl had caught his attention like Selina had, a woman that could make him hold his breath and make him wish… make him actually _want_ her.

Too bad that Tommy had seen her first.

"A quick stop at my place", she was saying. "Then… you'll see."

"Your place?"

"I have to get something. And I could use the help of a tall, strong, athletic playboy."

He smirked. "_Athletic_, is it? Thank you, I guess."

"You should be thankful. I don't go around throwing unnecessary compliments, I assure you."

"Okay. Although you said you needed my help, so I'm guessing…"

"… _flattering_ was my way of convincing you to come with me?"

There it was: the charming smile again. He turned his attention to the sidewalk ahead of them – it was best if she didn't realize the effect that smile had on him.

"I would say _yes_, but I was already convinced… You didn't let me pay for lunch, after all. There must be something I can do to thank you for keeping me company."

"Well, it wasn't such a big sacrifice, believe it or not."

It was a pleasant afternoon, the blue sky untainted by clouds. They made their way to Selina's house in a lazy walk, Bruce watching her from the corner of his eyes: how graciously she moved, how her green eyes where remarkable under that bright sunlight. Her hair was tide in a bun, but a few clandestine locks of dark hair had escaped and now danced at the pace of the soft breeze, close to her cheek. He remembered the first time he saw her, at the Gallery party; she was by one of the large open windows, enjoying the fresh air from Gotham's night. That had been an interesting sight, to say the least – he had felt immediately attracted to her, to that woman that had both the courage and the will to do that… turn her attention to the open sky and dirty streets, and ignore a whole gala behind her. He recalled her expression: her eyes closed, her lips suggesting a subtle, pure smile. Her neck slightly tilted, as the faint wind could be dancing, wrapping around her slender body, embracing her as only very familiar and comfortable arms could. She was so beautiful, he thought then – and now. Now, as she walked side by side with him, in elegant and gracious steps, so confident, seeming so certain about who she was and what she would do. Just that, to be next to her in a casual walk, that simple thing, had made wonders for his mood and disposition; he felt he was doing something _right_, for a change.

Something good, just for himself.

"You're a quiet one, aren't you?"

She had asked, an amused smile in her features.

"Does that bother you?"

"No, not at all", she immediately replied. "It's actually a _good _thing."

"Really?" He was incredulous. "Because most women complain about that…"

"I guess that silence can be disturbing for some – people that can't be alone with their own thoughts, if you ask me. Like I said, I think it's a good thing. Hate that kind of guy that just has to fill every little moment with words… usually his, and talking about himself."

"To be honest…"

"… you're not big into this 'talking about yourself' thing, right?" As he nodded in agreement, she stopped near the staircase that led to the entrance of one of the brownstones. "Here we are", she said, already climbing the steps, keys in her right hand.

He followed Selina into her house, unsure if that was what she expected him to do. She didn't oppose, and merely instructed him to wait downstairs while she got something upstairs. For that, Bruce was grateful – he took the opportunity to look around.

The place wasn't what he would expect from the owner of an antique shop: instead of the aged furniture, pictures and ornaments, he found a minimalist, modern decoration. Most objects were of simple design, though unique and probably expensive. Few paintings on the walls, no photographs anywhere in sight. Sober colors and patterns. Everything seemed new, basically unused. It looked like Selina hadn't brought anything from his previous home, wherever that was, and bought everything new.

That required a whole lot of money, of course. Perhaps too much money for a mere antique dealer?

"_Don't go there"_, he told himself. Enough of suspicions. At least for now.

He heard her at the stairs, and went there to meet her. He found her already at the entrance hall, placing two large cardboard boxes on the floor.

"I see why you need my help…", he said in a playful tone.

"I'm not a feminist. Don't mind the help of those strong male arms..." She lightly tapped the top of the boxes. "They are not too heavy, though."

"Okay… and where are we taking them?"

"I'll call a cab and you'll see." She walked towards the phone. "If you still want to go, that is…"

"I do", Bruce answered quickly. "You don't need the cab, though… I have a car waiting for me."

Selina frowned for a moment, considering the offer. Then:

"Are you sure? I really don't want to take advantage…"

"Please. I would never think that."

A sardonic smirk was her answer. He insisted:

"I know… I know it's hard for you to believe it after what I told you that night… Honestly, I would like very much if you accepted my offer. The car is just outside, waiting for me. It's no imposition."

She finally put the phone back into place and shrugged. "What the hell… why not? Let's use your car."

They waited for the Rolls Royce outside, and it was there in less than three minutes. As the car parked close to the sidewalk, Bruce watched Selina, taking mental note of her reaction: she didn't look impressed by his fancy car, and gently smiled at the driver when he helped her with the boxes. She even introduced herself and asked his name.

Bruce sighed – in a way, he was beginning to regret the moment he accepted Selina's invitation; as he knew her more and more, his affection for her also grew. And that, of course, meant trouble indeed.

* * *

Selina signed the ten thousand dollars check.

"Oh, Miss Kyle, we can't thank you enough… you donations have been a life savior for us…"

"Please, Mrs. Thompkins, don't mention it. It's a pleasure, and the least I could do."

"You do too much, Miss Kyle… if only there were others like you; this orphanage would be a very different place."

"Well, I can't speak for other people, but you can always count on me, Mrs. Thompkins."

She was at the administration office of the Gotham Narrows Home for Girls. It was an orphanage for female children, with girls from several ages: newborns to seventeen, sixty orphans that had no one in this world but that place. Like she had been doing every Friday ever since she arrived in Gotham, Selina had brought clothes for the children; and like she did every month, wrote a check to help them with expenses.

Leslie Thompkins, the founder and director of the institution, heartily accepted Selina's help. She was a woman around her fifties, whose life had been dedicated to charity. Selina didn't know much, but knew enough: that orphanage was her lifework, and she honestly cared about those girls. To Selina, that was what really mattered.

"Your donations have been a great help, Miss Kyle…"

"Call me Selina, Leslie."

"Of course… Selina." The woman smiled. "You see, the money and clothes have been doing so much for the girls. To be honest, though, I think that what make the girls happier are your weekly visits. They look forward to see you."

"Really? You think so?"

"Absolutely." Leslie had walked a few steps and was looking at one of her office's windows, the one that gave her view of the yard and playground. "You see, Selina, these girls hardly get any attention. And when they do, it's from me, or other people that work here. It's wonderful when they get to interact with people like you… a successful, generous young woman." She turned to face Selina. "You're a role model for them. Someone they _admire_."

For some reason, that bothered Selina more than flattered her. A _role model_? That was the last thing she wanted to be… or that she _could_ be. She was a _thief_, after all.

"I don't know about that, Leslie…"

"Don't be modest. Just what you do for this place… it's an admirable thing."

Now Leslie's attention was at the window again; she laughed. "It looks like your friend Bruce Wayne is also very popular…"

Selina approached her and joined her by the window; down there, at the playground, Bruce was pushing three different little girls in three different swings. Around him, other children, waiting for their turn and hoping in excitement, trying to get his attention and climb to his arms – he was already holding a child, though. Isabella was her name: a girl that had been badly beaten by her dad when she was just a baby, and had lost movement of her legs.

"He has a way with women, that's for sure."

"Yes… his father was the same."

The statement surprised Selina:

"You knew his father?"

The women nodded. "Yes, I knew his parents. That was a long time ago, of course. I was a nurse and worked at Gotham General… that's where I met Thomas Wayne. Martha and Thomas helped with my first project, a clinic in the East End for those that had no way of paying for medical treatments."

"And what happened?"

"Unfortunately, after Thomas and Martha died, donations from Wayne Foundation were cut." She sighed. "Too bad. That was a wonderful project."

"Yeah, I'm sure it helped many people back then… but so did this orphanage."

Leslie nodded. "Oh, yes, Gotham needed at least one decent place where girls like those could live. There was never a lack of institutions that _claimed_ to take care of children, but how they did that…" She sighed. "You have no idea of the things I heard and saw, Selina, when I visited some of those institutions."

"I bet, Leslie. I bet."

But she did; she _did_ have an idea – yet another one of her little secrets…

The place was called St. Mary's Home for Girls, not far from where Leslie's orphanage now functioned. It had been closed a decade ago, and Selina was very thankful for that, despite the fact that any minute the place had been open was too much time, of course. St. Mary was supposed to take care of orphan children… it was actually a prison for little girls. She went through _hell_ back then: her mother dead, she finally understanding she was alone and abandoned in this world – and this wasn't a _nice_ world. She lived in that damn house of torture for roughly three months before finally escaping, but those were months that scarred her for life. Selina would never forget: the spanking, swearing, the humiliations, being treated like less than an animal… All she learned was how to take a beat and then give it back. And that no one, no one would watch your back, take care of you, if you didn't do it yourself. To survive, she learned, you have to be the predator – otherwise, you are prey.

Maybe that's what Bruce learned when his parents were killed? Perhaps. Though watching him play with those girls down there, well, she had to wonder if there wasn't a soft side in Bruce Wayne, after all.

* * *

They went back to her house, now under the dusk of Gotham's lights. Few words were said during the car ride and, Bruce considered, it was for the best; it had been quite an afternoon, one in which he learned so much: about Selina, even about himself.

She probably couldn't begin to imagine what it was like for him to be at that orphanage: he knew better than most that Gotham was in dire need of places like that, somewhere children that had no families or anyone to care for them could have a decent life. He had been an orphan himself; and yes, Bruce Wayne, Gotham's prince, would never find himself in a place like that, but still – he knew what was like to feel alone and deprived of everything that brought you comfort. Ever since his parents died he had wondered, every day: what would be his life like if there wasn't someone like Alfred to watch over him?

Besides, he was also grateful for the chance of being around the people he ultimately fought for every night. It was easy to forget _why_ he was doing what he did. It was easy to think he did it for revenge, or because he hated crime and criminals… and yes, he did hate them, but that wasn't what Batman was about: Batman was about making Gotham a better place, one in which nine year-old kids didn't lose their families to violence and crime.

And that's what most people didn't understand about Batman – if anyone could actually understand, that was.

"Thank you", Selina suddenly said. She was sat right next to him, her shoulder brushing lightly against his biceps whenever the car made a brusque turn or movement.

"No. Don't thank me." He turned to stare at her, at her sculpted features and emerald eyes, so close to his own face. "It was a nice afternoon, really. I honestly appreciate it… the opportunity, I mean."

"Opportunity?"

He glanced at the window, now avoiding her gaze. "Let's just say that… that I try to do my part. But I rarely get the chance of interacting with people that I want to help. Not like _that_."

"Oh. Isolated in your castle, are you?"

"Something like that."

"Castle or no castle", she said, "it's easy to lose… perspective."

"It is. It really is."

To his surprise, Bruce felt Selina's hand over his, her soft, warm touch, so gentle and subtle. "Thank you", she insisted, her tone solemn, and yet, kind. "You've been a true gentleman through this whole thing… And I don't mean just with the girls."

He grasped her fingers. "Selina…"

"Bruce", she abruptly interrupted him. "_Don't_."

"What…?"

"I'm sure you're a good person, Bruce. You _are_. And I really wanted us to get to know each other… if things were different."

They were still holding each other's hands, and she lowered that luminous gaze of hers to their entangled fingers. "I'm not the kind of woman you probably think I am… Not the kind you need. And _deserve_."

"What do you mean?", he asked, honestly confused.

"I mean, _I'm complicated_."

He wasn't able to hold back a smile. "We _all _are, Selina."

"In different ways, Bruce."

She released her hand from his grip. He frowned:

"Is this about Tommy?"

"I assure you, it's _so_ not about Tommy."

The car parked; they had arrived at her house. He said:

"Whatever you think the problem is, Selina… isn't it too soon for you to worry about? What's the harm if I just take you out to dinner and we talk some more, get to know each other…?"

"Because I know you, Bruce. Not much, but a few things. And the last thing you need is someone that will complicate your life…."

"Isn't that my decision to make?"

"I don't want someone that will complicate _my_ life." She sighed. "As you certainly will."

He pursed his lips: now that was something he couldn't argue, after all.

She placed both her hands around his face, and kissed him lightly on his left cheek. From his part, Bruce had the impulse of embracing her, perhaps pull her closer and actually kiss her, lips on lips, and see where that would take them… But he didn't.

He simply accepted her kiss, and watched her go.


	5. The House Will Fall

Hello!

I just want to thank all of you that are here right now, reading my story. The chapter is long, but there's lots of action - hope you like it. I don't usually write scenes like that, and I would appreciate feedback about it.

Enjoy!

AliaAtreidesBr

* * *

She had never done something like that before – oh, the things she was missing!

Below her, twenty seven floors and a few more feet; around her, nothing but the cold stone wall which she climbed and Gotham's brutal wind, doing its best to throw her at the hard, deadly cement of the sidewalk so far down. A vain attempt. She was so confident, felt so secure… she shouldn't, of course. She knew better than that.

Selina couldn't help it, though. It just felt amazing up there. She had paid a revolting amount of money for that equipment but, now that she was there – climbing walls with nothing more than those adhering gloves and knee pads, plus her strength and wits -, Selina felt the investment was worth every penny…

Besides, she was about to collect her profit. Had her sources told her the truth (too bad for them if they hadn't), she would find in a few moments a collection of jewelry worth around twelve million dollars. That was no lunch money, darling; that was _real_ money, and she would make the best out of it.

From the twenty eighth floor to the thirtieth, she would find Sofia Falcone's penthouse triplex. Just that apartment had been evaluated in at least thirty million – nothing like having a mafia godfather as dad, right? Her father was no other than the late Carmine "The Roman" Falcone, and legend told that he was a _very_ generous father. No wonder little Sofia had such a collection of jewelry…

Selina had been planning this job for some time, now. It was a dangerous job, probably the most risky one she had ever tried. One thing, she knew, was to deal with alarm systems and security guards or, worst case scenario, the police. Mobster security, that was her first. These people are used to live under fire – and they don't hold back on it.

_That's why_, she silently pondered while finally reaching the penthouse's terrace, _stealth is the most important thing today…_

Oh, she had fought the temptation of putting up a show that would be more vivacious and dynamic, attracting more attention; then, after playing with the idea for a while, she thought straight. There was no need to make her business more risky than it already was… if she wanted _him_ to pay attention to her, nothing would be better than causing some real damage, right? Like twelve million dollars of damage, for instance. Maybe she wouldn't be all over the internet in low quality videos, but _he_ would know; he would certainly know she was the one that did it…

_Focus, Selina_, she told herself. Focus. She was close now, and had to be extra careful – failing meant dying, and although she wasn't particularly afraid of that, she also wasn't crazy about the idea of discovering what mafia thugs would do to a female burglar dressed as cat if they actually put their hands on her. That's why she had gone through all that trouble, right? Buying fancy new equipment, and spending long and tedious nights watching the security staff.

Lucky for her, mafia security wasn't one of the best services out there. Their talent probably was breaking people knees, because those were below average guards, no doubt. For example: Selina knew that on Fridays the terrace had two men in security - Fabio, who spend most of the night sat on the couch close to the door that leaded to the second floor, and Enzo, who was supposed to circle the terrace every hour and keep an eye on the streets below and the sky above. That worked fine until midnight, sometimes not even that long – soon Fabio would be snoring on that couch, and Enzo smoking while talking on the phone with one of his three girlfriends.

Since it was already half past one a.m., Selina wasn't surprised to notice Enzo wasn't anywhere to be seen when she finally reached her entrance point: the skylight that was directly above the indoor pool, the one "window" that had no alarms. That was just a big reinforced glass plaque in an ordinary metal frame – _really, do this people know nothing about security?,_ Selina wondered, _no surprise Batman can go in and out of anybody's place in this town_. She did her thing, without breaking a sweat: holding one side of the glass plaque in steel cables and suction cups, she quickly removed it from its frame. The thing dropped and remained secure by her simple equipment, hanging from the ceiling like a wide open door in the sky – wasn't that what it really was?

She wasn't in the mood for swimming, and so she used her magical gadget again: a cable in a grappling hook, courtesy of some guy that claimed he sold equipment to Batman in black market. Yeah, right… Selina knew better than to believe him, but the man had what she needed, so why argue? The thing worked, and that was what mattered. She swung like a pendulum above the clear water of the pool, gracefully diving and landing lightly on dry ground.

Now, the hardest part: getting to Sofia's safe. It was in her bedroom, inside her closet. And although Selina knew that lovely Sofia was currently enjoying a few weeks in Europe, her gangster staff remained at full schedule. No matter what, there were always two men on that bedroom door, plus two other on the corridor that led to the room. Not to mention the men that usually stood by the stairs that connected the penthouse's three floors. That was a lot of armed thugs, Selina knew, and it would be basically impossible to go through them without a fist fight… but that was no good, she had concluded log ago. Even if she managed those guys, that would attract too much attention. Cops. Maybe even Batman. And while that wasn't such a bad thing, she had her profit to think about: all that mess would make hard for her to open the safe, right?

Yes, that was right. And that was exactly why she wasn't going to do _that_.

Selina opened the door that would take her out of the pool room and to the corridor. She was glad to see there was no one there, and that her path was clear. She quietly walked the few feet from there to the sauna – empty and dark, as it should be at those hours. There she activated the night vision on her goggles, and started to lightly tap the walls.

It didn't take more than a minute for her to find what she was looking for. Taking a few tools from her backpack, she used one of her favorite gadgets – she called it the super-solvent. She sprayed it over the wall and waited.

It took five minutes, no more. Soon the grout in the tiles' joints was soft, and she carefully begun her work of pulling those tiles off. It was tedious, but not difficult; before long she had cleared most of the lower half of the east wall, and found what she wanted.

Selina smiled – the beauty of her work was to see how things went just as she planned. In her research about the apartment she had discovered the building was almost ninety years old, and that that very penthouse had been redesigned a few times. In the old days, back when it had belonged to one Henry Elliot – yes, Tommy Elliot's great-grandfather, of all people… small factoids she always regarded with uneasiness -, the place had a functional laundry room down at the first floor. And, back on the day, at every floor, and inside the master bedroom, there were very convenient laundry chutes.

The laundry chute had been deactivated, but its passage remained. Not just that: judging by what she was now seeing, the passages had been closed with simple drywall. Poor construction job, easier for her to accomplish _her_ goal.

Cutting a square of plasterboard was simple and quick, although squeezing herself in the narrow passage was not; she again used the adhering gloves and pads, but her maneuver space was seriously limited. So far, so good, but what happens, she wondered, if she was caught?

_Keep bad thoughts for better hours_, she told herself. No point in messing with her concentration at that moment – she needed all her energy in what she was doing, no doubt. _One thing is for sure_, she silently considered, _no way in hell Batman could fit in a passage like that_. It was a comfort, she realized, to think of things _he_ wouldn't be able to do.

It took her almost fifteen minutes to get at the place she wanted. There was no way to be sure about what was behind the wall she now carefully cut, but things in her line of work would always reach that point: the unknown. Long ago she had learned that all her careful planning and great skills wouldn't be able to assure her everything was going to be alright – turning points were a part of that life. You just wouldn't be able to predict every small thing, and so she worked on that: improvisation. Improvise was part of her, just like that strange, awesome feeling… faith. Trust. She just happened to have faith in herself, and she trusted her instincts; she _always_ trusted her instincts.

That's why there wasn't a moment of hesitation or fear when she removed the drywall square and jumped inside that dark room.

* * *

Bruce never counted on luck, destiny or fate. He didn't believe in coincidences either: things works at your favor only when you make it so, and that's why he was always, _always_ in control.

Even Bruce, however, had to once or twice in a lifetime wonder about the designs of unknown forces – not that he believed in them, of course.

However, he had to consider himself, well, _lucky_ that one time. Hadn't he come across a very interesting piece of information simply by… chance?

It had been just the day before, when he finally got his hands on one of those unpleasant men that sold things through the black market. _Stolen_ things. Pretty special ones. He was searching for the crown, of course. He may have let her escape his grip few weeks ago, but that was just the beginning. That Catwoman – yes, the name had stuck – had been very lucky that night, being able to escape him and get the crown, but that was then. She was in Gotham, and in Gotham you couldn't count your blessings too soon: it was _his _city, Batman's city, and no one would be able to sell that thing, or even find a buyer for such a remarkable artifact without his knowledge.

Sure, that woman had resources. He knew she wouldn't be passing that crown so soon, and she certainly would be very careful… but she had to do it someday. Eventually. And when she finally did, well, he would be waiting…

From his part, it demanded nothing but one simple thing: pressure. Pressure on those sellers of stolen art and artifacts, just enough to remind them who _owned_ Gotham, and who they should tell if something happened to come up. That's why he paid so many visits, spoke to so many old friends… and got a strange piece of information.

The man's name was Hastings, and he had history; had been working in Gotham's underworld for at least a decade, and was just as good with selling information as he was with stolen goods. He was a smart guy, who knew pretty well how to hide his trail and keep himself under the radar… until that Friday night. On that Friday night, unfortunately, Batman didn't give a damn about having good reason to go for Hastings and make his life a little worst.

That night, Batman didn't play subtle. He went for Hastings without mercy, landing punches and kicks, using all his best tools to make the man tremble and open his mouth. As predicted, Hastings provided a feeble, almost inexistent resistance. Soon he was telling Batman a tale that didn't involve a crown, but told a whole bunch about jewels…

* * *

There was at least one thing in that whole business of stealing Sofia Falcone's jewels that proved to be really challenging: the damn safe.

Her plan had been perfect until then – every little bit of information checked, everything on schedule, not a single scratch in her scheme. As expected, after she had managed to crawl out of the laundry chute, she found herself inside Sofia's large closet, basically another room that connected the bedroom and the large bathroom. That gave Selina all the space she needed, and finding the safe wasn't a problem for her. It wasn't even hidden, just behind closed doors.

_Well_, Selina considered, _if I had one like this, I wouldn't bother hiding it either_.

She had seen it before: titanium and tempered steel, six different locks, four electronic combinations. That was exactly what she had come to regard, in her years as thief, as a royal pain in the ass.

It wasn't an _impossible_ task, but it was a laborious one. Not to mention, very, very dangerous: that kind of thing usually had an alarm that connected with the police or private security office – considering those were mafia people, she would put her money in option number two.

Still, not impossible. Just boring and tiresome. She could do it. She could.

She had to. There was no way back now.

* * *

The first thing he noticed was the skylight over the pool, precariously hanging from a few cables.

_I'm late, then_, he thought. _Not too late, I hope._

His guess was that there was still time; from what he had learned, entering Sofia Falcone's penthouse and snatching her favorite jewels wasn't an easy job, not even for this Catwoman person. She was surprisingly resourceful, that female thief, but Batman had a fair amount of experience in dealing with the mafia and its methods – things were going to end badly for Catwoman if she wasn't careful. And, from what he had seen so far, caution wasn't one of her traits.

"I'm going in", he said, to no one but the cold wind blowing around him. He had considered his options; he would either wait for her outside or follow her inside. Going in that penthouse was risky, risky business. Men armed. Many possible casualties. Attracting the _wrong_ kind of attention to Batman.

Waiting for her outside, however… precisely what he had done that night at the Gallery. And he knew too well how that had ended.

No. He had to get her. If she accomplished that robbery, it would be her third. Her _third_ successful robbery in Gotham. In his city. Two of them while he was _there_, watching her do it.

She was not escaping him tonight – that was a promise.

He could only wonder how she had managed to get inside that penthouse. Did she _climb_ all the way to that roof? Did she have grappling hooks, just like his? Doubtful. Those were Wayne Tech prototypes. _No one_ had gadgets like that. No one.

Regardless of her methods, Batman had his; very straightforward methods, actually.

He had been watching from a building on the other side of the avenue, which was roughly a hundred and fifty feet away. Since he was at a higher point and the wind blew on his favor, he could easily glide to the exterior terrace; he could even land close to that open skylight, but that wasn't his plan.

There was no hesitation: Batman took the five steps that separated him and the edge of the building and jumped to a sudden dive. He maneuvered his cape, directing his gentle flight and reaching the balustrade of the terrace. He didn't leap over it, however, choosing to wait – the wind was a fierce force around him, whispering at his ears and trying to rip his cape away. As he hanged there on the outside façade, nothing holding him on the edge of the building but his strong, gloved fingers, Batman mentally counted the seconds, waiting for half a minute.

_Now_, his mind commanded his obedient, highly trained body.

He forced his massive figure in a fast move over the balustrade, a swift gesture that turned out to be a precise, brutal attack at the security guard that was passing by. As Batman had predicted, the man didn't have the time to react or even realize what had happened: he just dropped unconscious on the floor.

_That's one down. Thirteen more to go. _

Now, he would take care of the guard that slept next to the door.

* * *

Selina would give him that: for a big guy, he sure was a silent one.

_Silent_ was an understatement; she hated to admit, but the only reason she had managed to notice him before it was too late had been pure and simple dumb luck. She had just opened the safe, and was throwing inside her bag that famous jewelry collection as fast as she could, finally relieved to be over with the whole thing. She was so detached of that task that her thoughts drifted away, her mind already focusing on the hot bath she would take as soon as she entered her house. She was so distracted that she let one earring from a rich diamond pair slip through her fingers and roll away from her reach, ending somewhere behind her. That's why she turned, to get it, and that was when she saw it.

She saw it. Nothing but a shadow, blocking the faint luminosity that came from the master bedroom through the slit under the closed door. Nothing. It was nothing…

But her heart skipped a beat. She held her breath. The silence was complete, terrifying, unnatural. There was something _wrong_. She knew it. She just _knew_ it.

The whole thing couldn't have taken more than a few seconds – in her mind, all happened in slow motion. She grabbed her bag, her eyes focused ahead, at the passage she had created in the wall just a few moments earlier. Seven feet away, maybe less. She ran. One, two, three steps. _Jump!_, she thought, barely realizing she was already doing it.

Behind her, the door opened. In a loud, remarkable sound – he had probably kicked that door open, perhaps knocking it off from its frame. She didn't turn to check it; there was no time.

She went through the narrow passage, diving head first and hoping to just slide all the way down to where ever it lead. She had no idea, and she didn't care. Any place was better than there.

She wasn't quick enough, not for him: he grabbed her ankle just as she had begun her descent, abruptly interrupting it and causing a wave of pain through her leg and back, all the away to her neck.

"Get off me!" She yelled. She screamed and she cared nothing for the noises. Let someone hear it, guards, servants, mafia people, who ever… though she knew it, she knew there was no one. Batman was there: he had taken care of them.

Nobody would come. There was nobody but Batman and Catwoman.

He didn't let go of her, as she knew he wouldn't. Instead, he pulled her by that ankle in a move that was both strong and violent, his grip around her a painful thing. She didn't make his job easy, though; claws buried on the walls, fighting and kicking with her other foot, trying desperately to escape his hold.

But he was strong. Too strong, much stronger than her.

Selina yelled in frustration as she realized he was winning, her steel nails unable to help her as he pulled her body up, now both hands grabbing her right leg. There was pain, her body stretched in an unnatural way, her leg burning, joints in her hip screaming, her arms trembling from the absurd effort of fighting him… and in vain.

Batman's final pull was too much for her to fight against: Selina saw herself thrown out of the passage and landing across the room, her back hitting the carpet floor and air brutally forced out of her lungs. She almost lost her senses – darkness engulfed her, the closet spinning around her… she forced her upper body to a seating position, made her fiery chest move in search for air.

There he was. Standing ahead, his massive figure over her, just like that first night.

"Hi, darling", she whispered, the only sound she was able to produce, "missed me much?"

It was a strange thing the effect he had on her - that need she had when in his presence, that urge to speak and flirt. Batman, however, didn't seem to even notice; his tone was husky and somber:

"Put it back", he simply said.

_What…?_ Selina was confused for a moment.

"Oh! I see… you want me to _return_ these?" She idly gestured at the bag strapped on her back. "Sure, handsome, why not? I'll just return the trinkets and you'll let me go, won't you?"

The sarcasm in her voice was obvious – Batman, again, didn't show reaction to that:

"You have no idea who you are dealing with."

"Really?" She gained her feet again, somewhat shocked he had allowed her to do it. "I think I do, actually. Isn't this the penthouse of a very rich and criminal family?"

That didn't amuse him. "Steal from the mafia is not a smart move", he reasoned.

"Thank you for the advice", she said, "but I'm a big girl and know what I'm doing, darling."

"You don't."

He went for her, again so swiftly and unexpectedly. Now, however, she was ready for it.

She saw his intentions: he meant to grab her and immobilize, probably hold her arms behind her back – Batman, it seemed, was going _soft_ on her. Too bad for him; she had no plans of returning the kindness.

Selina allowed him to come, using all that power and quickness on her favor. He clearly underestimated her, and that was something she had great pleasure in taking advantage of – she ducked and pulled him over her, throwing him on the floor and making him land on his back, just like he had done to her a few moments before.

"How does it feel to be the one on the ground, tough guy?"

He was silent and fast – she shouldn't have forgotten. Batman moved too quickly for her to react properly, knocking her down with a very effective low kick while he was still down himself. Good thing her reflexes were on the top of her game: only that avoided a fall that could have put her out of the fight. Despite the fact that he had managed to hit her with precision and made her lost her balance, Selina was able to avoid the worst by flipping mid-air and using her hands to prevent landing on her head.

"Bastard…", she growled.

Batman, however, had already rolled out of her reach, and now stood solid on his feet. His voice was raspy and low:

"You're not escaping me tonight, Catwoman."

She couldn't help but rejoice at the sound of her alias spoken by him. "Wanna bet, handsome?"

Catwoman readied her claws and raised her agile body to stand again; she thought she knew what was about to come – truth was, and that was something she was just beginning to understand:

In Gotham, you never know.

* * *

Batman never heard or saw where it came from exactly, but there was no doubt in his mind it had been through the window.

The sound it made when it was already inside – the metallic clank, how it bounced on the wall and landed heavily on the floor, a thin trail of white smoke following it – was enough to trigger something inside him. He knew _guns_, and he knew _weapons_, but grenades… that was something else. His brief studies about them had, however, taught him to _recognize_ one, and he didn't have a second of doubt when he saw the thing there, at the master bedroom's floor, that it was about to detonate.

Catwoman was a few feet behind him, apparently just as curious about what had suddenly interrupted their dispute. She even muttered something in the lines of "what in the world is that…?", but he didn't answer her or gave her time to think about it – time was precisely what they _didn't_ have.

He grabbed her by her waist abruptly, ignoring both her protests and the painful stings of her metal claws as she buried them on his back. There was light and then noise: a loud blast. He had reached the safe, that large, reinforced safe that had kept the Falcone's jewels secure for so long. It was a proper occasion to see if it could protect something other than trinkets bought with blood money from the mafia.

They didn't have time to anything but this: jump behind that heavy cube of titanium and hope for the best. Hope the explosion wasn't strong enough to move the safe and make it crush them against the wall. Hope the fire wouldn't suffocate them before they could move. Hope Catwoman wouldn't pass out and make hard for him to take them out of that mess.

Lucky was on their side – the safe didn't move _much_. It trembled and bounced, but it didn't slide over them. Hot air engulfed them, burning the oxygen and robbing them of air, but not enough to turn them into carbonized forms. His cape, which he used to cover them both while Catwoman still fought him, helped them not get too burned. They were lucky. Very lucky.

Fire came, roaring and growing unstoppably, a colorful monster eating clothes and wood around them. Smoke getting thicker and thicker.

A woman coughing relentlessly while in his arms.

"Are you okay?", he asked, screaming above the sound of that symphony of disaster.

She nodded, struggling to get some air in her lungs. The heat was absurd, his chest lifting a ton to find something, _something_ he could breathe. Pieces of drywall and wood fell like a rain of ember. Visibility was terrible, and he risked a few steps on the floor that, he had no doubt, would soon drop under them.

Catwoman grabbed his cape:

"The… chu… chute…", she said in the mid of another coughing fit.

Chute? He hesitated for a few seconds, and then remembered: that passage, the one Catwoman had used to enter the bedroom and that she tried to use as an escape route. Probably a deactivated laundry or garbage chute – and that meant a narrow, unknown passage that could either be their way out or just a less than appropriate grave.

But they had no other option.

He allowed her to lead their way, though he knew the passage was approximately five feet to their left. Still, it was a good thing he let her show the way; she seemed very sure of what she was doing, and had no trouble to find the hole on the wall and lead his hand so he could locate it himself. He had no goggles or protection for his eyes, and he simply wasn't able to keep them open anymore.

He helped her go through the square passage he could only assume she had opened herself; as he held her arm, just a moment before she slid out of his reach, she had the gracious of warning him:

"It's… narrow… very…"

"I know", he said. And he did know – but it was their best chance.

He heard as she started her descent, the nervous sound of her sharp claws scratching the metal of the tunnel as she tried to avoid dropping too quickly in the unknown darkness. Batman followed her immediately, but his fall was anything but that: the passage was just as narrow as Catwoman had warned, and then some. He barely fit in there, and had to force his way through every inch of that tunnel.

There was the small console of realizing the air in there was somewhat cleaner, as it hadn't been completely filled with smoke just yet. That was bound to happen soon, he knew, but he hoped they could be out of there when it finally did. He reached for his belt, taking his goggles and putting them on, relieved to finally be able to see again. Activating night vision, he was able to look down and discern Catwoman's figure bellow, moving quickly and now not coughing as much.

Batman wondered how long that passage could be, but soon learned that the answer was: not long enough. The tunnel went down, straight and vertical, but for no more than twenty feet. He was forced to suddenly break his fall when he noticed that, under him, Catwoman had stopped.

He didn't need to ask: she groaned and cursed while kicking with all her might. Bellow her, the tunnel had ended abruptly.

"There's… no way… down", she yelled, her face bright with sweat and her voice denouncing how despair was lurking on her. No wonder: in less than thirty seconds that passage had turned into a gigantic oven, and he doubted they could endure more than a minute or two inside it. He gazed down at where Catwoman thrust her boots insistently, seeing a metal plaque. There was hope, then: for what he saw, watching carefully as the piece of metal behaved as she kicked it, he deduced it wasn't thick and it was held by simple screws.

"Let me try", he said.

Even in that hopeless situation she was able to smile. "Sure… I'll… teleport… out of… here…"

He ignored that, although he privately agreed that fitting them both down there was a stretch. However, he had seen so many amazing things in his life time – a prison in South America, for instance, where forty men would live in a cell meant for eight. Or that Chinese circus, where he saw five people fit in a box that, for what he judged, could barely shelter one. The point was, it's a matter of volume. And discovering how to use space in the best manner possibly.

"We'll make it work", he simply stated.

She didn't argue – didn't seem to have the strength to do it. Besides, they had no option. Even if they could climb it back to where they started, they would find just flames and smoke. The explosion and the fire had destroyed the two highest floors, and there would be nothing but death that way.

He wrapped his cape around himself, the best he could do to help his massive body slide down the tunnel. Slowly he went, Catwoman pressing her own body against the narrow walls to give him space.

Soon they reached a limit, the rubber of their suits squealing as they touched, their arms and hands struggling to find a place to be, their legs grazing each other while both looked for support and tried to avoid stepping on each other.

"Not… working…", she gasped, her body painfully crushed against his, their chests tight and without room to work in search of air in a place where it already seemed to exist none.

She was right – and yet, they had to find a way.

He act based on instinct: wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her as close as possible to him, her head resting on his collarbone, their bodies adjusting to that massive contact. Her face he did not see, but she acted in agreement: raising both arms to circle his neck and finding a place for her legs between his. As it was, he wondered if there was any way they could be closer to each other, but Catwoman cleared his doubts. She pulled herself up a few inches, adjusting her hips just above his pelvis and using the wall behind her as support for her back.

"That… will do… right?", she whispered close to his ear.

Instead of answering, he did what he was there to do: kick that plaque out of their way. The chute was now filled with smoke, and so hot that the air around them danced visibly, distorting images like the world was seen through thick glass. He raised and brought down his right leg, the stronger one, not daring to look and check if his thrusts were effective. He just did it, promising himself he would do it until he was either dead or out of that place.

He felt it, though. The metal reverberating and bending under him, the sound of screws thrown out of their places. He felt that if he could _jump_, push that thing with all his weight, maybe it would be faster – he couldn't jump. There was hardly space for him to move that leg, and Catwoman had used her last energy reserves to climb over his body and stay out of his way. She couldn't be of much use now, barely able to breath, her inertness on his arms causing him to wonder if she was even awake.

He would scream in frustration if only there was enough air for that in his lungs. He pursed his lips, though, closed his eyes, focused. There was no time to panic. Panic wouldn't help, despair wouldn't be useful. His strength, his will, his techniques – that was what he needed.

Concentrating all his attention on his right leg, minding every step of that move. Raised his knee, allowing the strength to come from his entire body and focus in that member, inhaled as he visualized the perfect blow, exhaling as he finally propelled that foot and released all his power… the perfect kick. Or the best he could produce, at least.

The metal under them gave in.

The plaque fell, and they followed it almost immediately. Batman managed to land on his feet, Catwoman still on his arms. As he had figured, she had lost conscious at some point. He carefully placed her down on the floor, taking a second to study his surroundings.

They were on the kitchen, it seemed, and alone. No sign that the fire had reached that point of the penthouse just yet, but that was bound to happen – if not in another way, now through the passage they had just came from. For now, the place looked safe; it was large, quiet, most of the furniture made of stainless steel and marble. He turned to exam Catwoman more attentively, planning to just check her vitals and leave as soon as he made sure she was alright.

And then, he noticed the smell of propane gas.

It took a moment to his mind register it. _Gas_. Gas. And fire.

There was a large window on the west wall. Just glass. He hoped it wasn't _reinforced_ glass.

Again he took Catwoman and raced for shelter… except this time there was nowhere to hide. No place in that crumbling penthouse would be safe enough to endure what was bound to happen as the first sparkle or ember met quantities of propane gas.

As he went through that window, nothing but mundane glass in his way – the first good news he had had that day -, Batman felt his body not falling down as expected, but instead abruptly pushed forward and up. Again, light and heat, and an unbelievably loud and prolonged sound following that sudden gust of hot air that threw swirling flames at every direction. A shower of flaming objects and unidentified chunks of building material and furniture fell over and around them, quickly burning holes and shredding his cape to a useless rag. So much for the plan of gliding safely out of there.

He still had his cable and grappling hook, if nothing else. He had no idea if it would be enough, if it could hold both him and Catwoman, but second guessing wasn't an option, especially as the ground seemed to approach so fast.

There wasn't time to aim it accurately, not even be sure of what he would hit. Batman simply pointed at the building directly across the street, telling himself the cable would reach it. And it did, in fact, two seconds later stretching painfully and gritting hysterically, showing him it had got a solid grip on something. He held Catwoman fiercely with both his arms, knowing there was no way for him to properly maneuver that cable and avoid the impact on the building ahead. All he managed to do was swing with his legs and poorly aim at one window, hitting it with his boots and shattering it as they violently broke into someone's home.

Letting go of the cable, he forced their painful landing on the carpet, Catwoman passed out over his beaten and sore body.

_We made it_, he told himself. It was hard for even him to believe it, but there it was: they had escaped that damn building. Odds weren't at their favor, to say the least, but they had done it.

He gently rolled her to the floor next to him, taking a few seconds to regain control – now he realized he was trembling a bit. Then, after a few deep breaths – and what a relief to be able to do it without smoke burning his chest from inside -, he took a knee and examined Catwoman's vitals. Her heartbeat was fine, and although she breathed heavily, he was glad to see she was still able to do it. Cuts and bruises on her arms, legs, thorax, even her face; burned flesh here and there. All seemed to be superficial, though.

She was gorgeous, he now recognized. He _knew_ it before that moment, of course, but… he never admitted, apparently. Now, as she laid quietly on the floor, it was unquestionable that Catwoman had put an effort in that femme fatale look, though she didn't have to; the woman was actually beautiful, and that outfit, despite being probably very useful, didn't make her justice. Having the time to simply look at her, and not fight her, Batman was able to see her… daintiness.

Her goggles were shattered, he noticed. Slowly, gently, not thinking much about what he was about to do, he removed them.

* * *

She woke up to nervous voices around her.

Selina's last memories concerned a very narrow tunnel that was unbearably hot and Batman desperately trying to kick their way out of there. Then, all went dark, and her last thought was that, at least, she didn't care anymore.

Now, however, she _cared_. She cared about where she was, and whose voices were those around her. She cared about the sharp and painful sensation on her sore back, and about her burning lungs. She cared that she had no idea what so ever of how she had ended where she was and, above all, she cared about this:

_Where the hell are my goggles?_

She sat for a moment, dizziness making the simple move a very hard task. Never the less, she opened her eyes and forced herself to look around: it seemed to be an ordinary living room, couches, coffee table and family pictures hanging on the walls. It was dark, but not as much as a costumed burglar would like it to be; light from the streets came through the shattered window and also from the adjacent entrance hall. No doubt that, even unconscious when it happened, that damage was, in some way, her fault.

And then, there were the voices.

A woman in her mid-thirties screamed, her cries lightly muffled as she covered her mouth with both hands. Behind her, and fervently attached to her leg, a little girl around eight years old watched the events that took place with wide, astonished eyes. No wonder: Selina never had a father, but she could imagine that see your dad holding a gun and pointing it at the strange, dark figures in your living room was a scary event indeed. Especially if your father cursed and yelled at the top of his lungs that he would kill those people if they dared moving, or that he would spread their brains all over the wall if they tried something funny.

_Funny_, Selina thought, was that fool with a gun, threatening Batman himself with it. Because there he was, the Dark Knight, kneeled just next to her. His outfit was a mess, perhaps in even worse shape than hers, but he seemed alert and fairly unscathed – all things considered, that was. As that guy screamed his brains out at him, Batman stood still as a statue, studying and observing the man's every move. He had both hands concealed under the sorry rag his cape had become, but she was close enough to notice it: her goggles hanging around his left wrist. Bastard. He was the one that had taken them out.

She felt pretty beaten, but able to take action if she had to. It was his show, though, she knew that too well. Gotham people, Gotham _citizens_, allegedly Batman's people, right? Hadn't he been the one that claimed he could protect them? Let him deal with that.

"Don't _move_!" The gun in the man's hand trembled slightly. "I'm serious about that, _freaks_! I'll put a hole in your face if I see something!"

_Lovely_. She was starting to get annoyed with that guy, especially because every second under those people scrutiny made more likely they would remember her face – poor illumination could protect her identity only for so long.

"Julie", the man said, speaking to the woman Selina assumed was his wife, "call 911. Tell them we are being _robbed_. Robbed by Catwoman and Batman."

Selina snorted in scorn. "Catwoman _and_ Batman? Please… you're confused. I'm the thief. He is the knight in shining armor that comes to rescue. The _hero_, you know?"

"Hero?" The guy looked genuinely insulted. "Heroes don't kill people. They don't _murder_ good man like that Dent guy, or kidnap the family of a _true_ hero like the Commissioner." He risked a few steps closer to them, and spat on Batman. "He's a damn _crook_, that's what you both are… no wonder you work together. That little theater you put on that Gallery robbery didn't fool me, I tell you… I knew you were together in that…!"

Catwoman found herself truly shocked by that man's words: she never thought there were people in Gotham that actually believed that crap about Batman being a murder or a kidnapper. Especially to the point where their despise was so great they could spit on the very man that protected them. She glanced at Batman, searching his features for any kind of reaction: insult? Surprise? Sadness? She expected any of those – instead, there was nothing.

Selina knew it, of course: to dress yourself in cape and cowl and fight crime with just your fists was a job that only a very cold guy could accomplish. Cold in a good manner, she always believed: the kind of person that kept his nerves in check even when in the direst situation. She never thought of Batman as someone that could simply have no feelings at all.

"You're pretty tough with a gun in your hand, aren't you?" She provoked the man. Maybe Batman was willing to endure insults until the cops arrived, but Selina had plans of leaving that apartment and getting home without a vacation in Arkham first. "Why don't you drop it for a few minutes and I can show you how tough you _really_ are?"

"Bitch", he muttered. Then, looking over his shoulder to apparently check if neither his wife nor child was around, he whispered. "I could just kill you, got it? It's not like the cops would _care_. You broke into my _home_, whore…! I have the right to shoot you if I want to…"

The blow came fast, and it was precise. Batman's move had been so swift and perfect, simple: with one hand he hit the man's arm, forcing him to drop the weapon; the other hand hit the guy's temple, knocking him down before he could register where that fist had came from.

For a big guy, he sure was a silent one – Selina would give him that.

* * *

Catwoman's escape through the window was so quick he wondered if she had been faking that dizziness a few minutes before.

Before he could follow her, though, there were still things to do: he dismantled that awful pistol in useless pieces and smashed them with his boot. Behind him, the child cried. The woman asked for mercy – she had no idea the greater treat she had recently faced had been her own husband handling a weapon he didn't know how to use.

There was no time to explain himself, and no use also. That man had been very clear about his feelings concerning Batman, and there was little he could do to change that. Besides, he did invade that home, he scared that family, he caused damages much bigger than a check from an anonymous donor could mend. And although he didn't regret hurting that man, not after all the things he had said, Batman had to wonder if there wasn't some truth in his words of hate.

Batman _had_ helped Catwoman. And now, as he climbed the building's fire escape behind her, he realized that he honestly had no idea of what to do. Because that woman up there, that _criminal_, wasn't just that.

She was Selina Kyle.

He reached the rooftop in time to see her jump to the next building. He followed her, but, as he landed after his leap, she waited for him:

"Stop it right there", she said.

He didn't have to do what she told him, but he did it anyway. She had things to say and, quite frankly, so did him.

"I want my mask", she bluntly declared.

Now he saw that those goggles were still there, around his wrist. He grabbed them as to toss them to her, but hesitated. The way he saw, he could do one of two things: the first, give the goggles back and let her put them on, turning that conversation into one between Catwoman and Batman. Option two, however, would be a leap of faith: take off _his_ mask, and let her know who he was. Bruce and Selina. Give her the chance of understanding so much about him, just like now he understood so many things that were said between them. She was Catwoman – strangely, that made perfect sense.

"Cam'on", she insisted. "You saw my face, you know who I am. What's the point of keeping me without my mask?"

He sighed, and threw the goggles at her direction.

"You're right", he said. "I know who you are. There's no point in running from me."

She smiled. "I guess. Does that mean you're going to arrest me? Will I have cops on my doorstep by morning?"

That was very possible, she had no idea how quickly and surely he could arrange that. He decided to play her game, however:

"It's a likely outcome."

"Is it? Because, you know, I could be miles from here in just an hour or so…"

"Do you want me to arrest you now? Is that it?"

"Absolutely _not_", she promptly answered. "I was thinking that, maybe, we could work _together_."

That almost made him laugh – it would be funny if not insulting.

"I'm sorry, I don't work _with_ other people, especially criminals. You _rob_ for a living, and you belong to jail."

"You are so full of _shit_, you know?" She placed her goggles over her eyes again, hiding the obvious anger he saw in her features. "I steal, therefore I belong to jail? Well, you invade, you assault, you torture, you don't respect at least two dozen laws every single night… tell me, where do _you_ belong?"

"It's different", he said, aware of how foolish he probably seemed to her while saying it. In fact, he did feel pretty simpleminded even to himself with that line.

"Is it?" Now her tone translated skepticism. "Guess that's for you to judge. You know everything anyway, don't you?"

He didn't respond her defiant question – it didn't matter; she just kept talking:

"Maybe you could clarify this to me? Who the _hell_ tried to kill us tonight?"

"Don't jump into conclusions; that place was owned…"

"… by the Falcones, a mafia family… yeah, yeah, I know_ that_. Every single low life criminal in town knows it too."

"The target to that attack could be anyone in that penthouse, not just…"

"You know that's not true."

He knew it.

"That bomb was there to either kill you or me; maybe the both of us", she reasoned. "And I bet you want to find out who did it, and why, just as much as I do."

She was right. Someone tried to kill them that night, and not just _anyone_. Someone that had both the resources and the wits to do it; someone that had been able to trace them, someone that probably knew where Catwoman and Batman were, perhaps someone that had even manipulated them both.

That was a scary thought.

"All I'm saying is this: we could help each other. I know I could use _your_ help…" She took a deep breath. "The jewels are gone. I didn't accomplish what I was going to do tonight, which means that, technically, I didn't commit a crime…"

"Now, there's a stretch."

"Give me a break, will you?"

He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at her. _Selina_. It was Selina under that cowl, of all the women in that city. If it _wasn't_ her, would he even be in doubt right now? Would he consider, for at least a second, accepting that proposition?

But it was Selina, and there was no way around it. Catwoman, the criminal he despised, was actually a woman he knew, he just _knew_ to be a good person. Whatever were the roads in her life that had lead her there, the choices she made that turned her into an outlaw, she was still a good person. And wasn't Batman, in fact, a symbol created by him to represent hope? Hope in something better, hope he had that people, an entire city, actually, could become better?

"The crown", he finally said.

"What about it?"

She was playing dumb and knew it; he wasn't about to give in so easily. "Return the crown and we have a deal."

"For real?" Her smile was a beautiful thing to see.

"Tomorrow. Bring it to me, and I'll take it as a sign of your good intentions."

"Or maybe", she provoked, "I could take the crown and be in Paris this time tomorrow."

"It's a possibility." He walked to the edge of the building, turning his back on her. "Just remember: I know who you are."

"Do you?"

"Try me and you'll find out."

"If I decide I want to return it… where do we meet?"

"Don't worry – I'll know how to find you."

With those words he dived into the city, again feeling like the sole owner of Gotham's night.


	6. Lies within lies

Hello there!

Long time no see… Yes, I had kind of abandoned this story (and all others), but now I intend to finish it, even if at a slow pace.

I think it's interesting to note that this is the first chapter I publish after watching the third installment of Nolan's Batman. Yeah, I watched it last year – it seems so long ago -, and enjoyed it very much. This fiction, however, is based and related to the Movieverse, though now I think it's fair to say that it DOESN'T consider the third movie in its chronology, so to speak. This is not Hathaway's Catwoman – though that was an excellent Catwoman! -, or any of those characters we see in The Dark Knight Rises. Is this too hard to understand? I hope not.

In all truth, I might change this story to the "comics" category, but I would rather finish it first. We'll see. The important thing to keep in mind is that this is another take of Batman's life after The Dark Knight, originally written before the third movie happened. I also think it's fair to say that I had not written the entire story before watching the movie, so I might be influenced by it, although I'll never purposely refer it.

All that said, I thank you for reading this, and hope you guys can enjoy this fiction, despite the fact that the movie has already been seen, talked about, criticized, loved and whatever else blockbusters are.

Thank you all.

AliaAtreidesBr

* * *

Over his desk, the Blackberry vibrated.

"Not _now_", Tommy Elliot said and took a deep breath. "We are in the middle of something _so_ important, aren't we?"

He smiled down to her, her green eyes tearing at the sight. Tommy caressed her dark hair gently, then kindly touched her soft cheek.

"I'll be right back, sweetheart."

She started to cry again.

"Hush, darling, hush…" He lightly placed a finger over her lips. "It will take just a moment."

He truly didn't want to go, but had to. It was his work phone, and he didn't want people to think that brilliant and devoted neurosurgeon Thomas Elliot wasn't as available as ever. He had a reputation to keep.

It sure was a true effort: that young girl right there – helplessly tied up to the operation table in his basement's secret little office – was proving to be quite a catch. They were having so much fun together… he had her in there for three nights already, and she didn't seem to be giving up just yet; remarkable feat, considering most of the others would already be dead by now, or at least begging him to do it.

That was probably because he had changed the profile of his targets, he believed. The other girls had all been sweet young women, all from wealthy families, the daughters of sensible and loving parents and, most importantly, the kind of people that had never faced something _ugly_ in their lives. It made perfect sense for him: it was _his_ job to teach them a lesson, to give to those perfect little families a glimpse of the big, bad world outside. He used to think of himself as the Wolf, and they were his Red Riding Hoods – innocent women that he so easily managed to manipulate, kidnap, torture, kill. Blond little things, feeble, unable to resist him in any way. Those were his girls.

The girl over there, however, she was a different story.

They had met in one of the strip-clubs he often graced with his presence: cheap, despicable places in Gotham's worst parts, but places where he could have what he wanted, just the way he wanted. The girl worked there, an angry young girl that had the nerves of calling him a "douche bag" when he tried to touch her during a lap-dance. That amused him, in fact; most of the other strippers were always so anxious to please him, knowing he was so much richer than the usual costumers. She had guts, Elliot admitted, and was a very pretty girl.

In a way, she reminded him of Selina Kyle. He had tried to not obsess about that woman, that tramp, that damn bitch that had the nerves of ignoring his phone calls for a week. Worse: while doing that, she had been visited by Bruce Wayne. No doubt that Bruce and Selina had _connected_ in that Gallery gala… later, when he mentioned to Bruce he had enjoyed Miss Kyle's company, his so called friend neglected to tell him about how he had paid a visit to Selina's store just the day after that party.

Yes, the girl looked like Selina… physically, no doubt, and also in that aggressive behavior, something Miss Kyle seemed to be so good in concealing – most of the time. It was there, though, he knew it was; you just had to know where to look.

Now, he had no regrets about that small change in his work. That woman over there had given him more pleasure and satisfaction than he had had in a while: he loved the ones that struggled, the ones that pretended to be tough, the ones that masked their pain. It was vain, and kind of silly, but he liked.

Too bad about the phone; now that he was chief surgeon at the hospital he didn't receive those emergency calls so frequently, but they did happen; and when they did, it was usually as serious as it gets, which meant he couldn't bail without damaging his carefully cultivated reputation and position.

He took off his rubber gloves and grabbed his cell phone, reading the message that had just came. First thing he couldn't help noticing was the sender: _not_ the hospital, or any name he knew. In fact, it had come from an "Unknown" source.

That was unusual, but Dr. Elliot didn't make much of it: he had often received messages that were sent to his number by mistake. It would be an unfortunate event, to be interrupted by a message that wasn't even meant to him, but he had ways to console himself, no doubt – that was why the girl was there in the first place. With that in mind, he read the message:

"_Dear Doctor,_

_Want to know what your Dark friend is up to? Pay attention to The Man in black. He's very creative and smart, not an easy prey to Nail._

_By the way, why don't you check your e-mail?"_

He held his breath, and the phone was shaking in his hand. He pressed the buttons insistently, with more strength than necessary, no doubt. It took him a few seconds to access his personal mail account; there, just a single new message, received not even two minutes before. Again, "unknown" was who had the mail came from. The title, however, read "Bat and Cat BURN".

Elliot opened the message, and noticed there was a video attached, identified by date. He played it without hesitation.

The work was very good. The beginning had been shot from a building that was perhaps half a block away from Odyssey Tower, that old edifice his great-grandfather had financed almost a hundred years ago. The main shot showed Odyssey Tower itself, focusing on the top floors. The first twelve seconds showed nothing unusual, and then he saw it – the editor of the film had highlighted it for him -, the large bat-like silhouette that glided from another roof to the terrace of his great-grandfather's former penthouse.

_Oh, Bruce… _No doubt about it, that was his old friend breaking into someone's home.

And then an abrupt cut of the shooting – the time on the corner of the film advanced almost ten minutes. The focus remained, though, and he still watched the penthouse. Again something was highlighted, the trajectory of an unidentified projectile that came from across the street and entered one of the top windows in the penthouse. Five seconds passed before he saw light and glass coming from that same window and other ones around it, most of them at the same floor.

Another cut. Now the point of view had changed, and he saw Odyssey Tower from another angle, the West, almost opposite from the previous shooting. The focus was a particular set of windows, from the floor that wasn't on fire, it seemed. Three seconds into it and he saw, all in slow motion for his benefit, no doubt: Batman throwing himself out of the window, another masked figure with him, as he carried him – wait, not him; _her_ -, as he carried her to escape from yet another explosion, a truly violent one. He couldn't help but admire Bruce's prowess: he reacted with such speed and confidence, using that remarkable cable of his to escape certain death on the pavement and smashed another window from the building across the street. All, of course, while caring another person.

That was when the angle changed again, now filming the rooftop of a building. He could still see the orange beacon of fire on the background, and the smoke going up the sky in thick pillars. That was not far from the previous point of view, he noticed, and he easily deduced he was looking at the top of the building Batman had invaded in his escape. And indeed, four seconds into the shooting, he saw two figures coming up that rooftop, then jumping to the next: Batman, for sure, and the other…

_Is that Catwoman?_

He thought it was, and then the camera focused on them as they stopped for a moment to _talk_. They seemed pretty friendly to each other, displaying quite a different relationship from the one Gotham had seen in those security videos from the Gallery. Add to that that Catwoman wasn't wearing a mask – too bad the film was shot from too far, he just couldn't have a decent look on her face. Their conversation hadn't been a long one, it seemed, but it ended in such an interesting way: Catwoman leaving, and Batman doing nothing to stop her.

The video ended right there, but in its last seconds, words appeared:

"_We should meet, doctor."_

_Oh, yes_, Thomas Elliot thought, _indeed we should_.

* * *

"Selina Kyle is Catwoman, Alfred", Bruce said as soon as the butler entered the cave carrying a silver tray with coffee and breakfast.

The statement didn't seem to impress Alfred.

"Milk or cream, sir?"

Bruce turned his chair to face the butler. "Catwoman, Alfred. The thief? It's Selina. _Selina_ _Kyle_."

Still Alfred didn't answer. He served Bruce's coffee, then carefully placing the pot back on the tray.

"Did you hear me, Alfred?"

The butler sighed. "I did, sir. My hearing is fine, and I understood what you said perfectly well." Now he faced Bruce in a grave expression, his tone matching his features. "I'm afraid I just don't have anything to add to that, sir. Catwoman is Selina Kyle – I wish I could tell you this surprises me."

Bruce frowned. "Did you suspect it already…?"

"Can't say I did, Master Bruce." He offered him the mug with coffee. "But it's very _fitting_, wouldn't you say?"

"No, I wouldn't. It's not 'fitting', it's… it's _wrong_. Just… so wrong."

"I suppose the fact that the only woman to attract your attention since Rachel's tragic death is actually a criminal could be seen as a problem, yes. However…", he dropped a sugar cube in the mug, "… it takes a very special and unusual set of… _traits_ to captivate you, Master Bruce. Not that I would know much about it, of course."

"Are you implying that I'm attracted to Selina _because_ she's a criminal? That's absurd."

"Oh, no, Master Bruce. Not because she's a _criminal_; because she's the only other person in Gotham that dresses in dark outfits and jumps across rooftops, sir." He looked into Bruce's eyes. "Because she might just _get_ you – the _real_ you."

Bruce raised a hand to scratch his chin, lost in deep thought for a few moments. He finally said:

"You think I should tell her who I am; who I _really_ am."

"I said no such thing, sir; but here is something I will say: if you _don't_ tell her eventually – and by that I mean sooner rather than later –, this _relationship_ of yours will not be in good terms. Not now, not ever." He blinked an eye at Bruce's direction. "Some criminals do have feelings, you know?"

Bruce smiled faintly. He actually _did_ know, and that was a disconcerting notion.

* * *

Selina undressed herself and contemplated the pitiful state of her Catwoman outfit: not simply filthy and torn – it was destroyed.

_Great_, she thought, _yet another thing this night took from me._

An outfit, however, wasn't hard to substitute. She could easily manage it, and no doubt that Catwoman would be back in full costume after a few hours of work. What are a few pieces of leather and rubber garment?

Her _other _problems, though…

Naked, she went into her closet – not as big as Sofia Falcone's closet, but not as deadly either, and for that she was grateful. Also, not as crowded; no big bats in there, that's for sure.

_How the hell did you know I was going to be there?_

She had been so careful. No one knew about her plans, not in details, at least. All the information she acquired, all the equipment: she had been so cautious to never get things she needed from the same people, always planting false rumors and disinformation to cover her tracks. And she covered her tracks, no doubt about it… and even if she didn't: there wasn't a soul in the world that knew in advance she would be in that penthouse that night. Not even Selina herself – it had been a last minute decision. She just _needed_ that, she needed to go out and accomplish something that Friday night, she needed to relax and forget… forget about Bruce, about that strange conversation and all the feelings it had brought. She _hated_ when, somehow, the idea that she wasn't doing great, that she wasn't absolutely happy about who she was, took hold of her mind.

Because she _was_ happy about the person she became. She was independent, wealthy, confident – and she needed no one. She had never had help, every little thing in her life had been a struggle… and she was damn proud of herself. So what if she was a thief? She stole, yeah, usually from people that didn't need what they had in the first place. She robbed, but she didn't hurt anyone, she never killed, she had never wronged people in need. _Never_.

_Why am I the villain here?_

Why did she suddenly feel like a bad person?

On top of that, someone had tried to kill her tonight. _Kill her_. And she had no idea why.

Perhaps she had just been… collateral damage. Perhaps Batman had been the target; maybe she was just at the wrong place at the wrong time…

_Fuck that. They could have killed him anywhere else. They wanted the both of us. _

Damn. Someone was trying to kill her.

She walked to the mirror, looking at her naked self. Burns, cuts, bruises. Pain, yes, pain all over her body, pain when she moved, and pain when she breathed. Still, not as bad. Not as bad as the other night, after the Gallery – apparently, when Batman is on _your_ side, things end better.

Or do they?

Was it better that he now _knew_ who she was?

_I should be freaking out_, she noticed, _but I'm not._ Reason told her the best to do was get the crown and the rest of her indispensable things – which were few things – and just get the hell out of Gotham. Take a plane to Asia, somewhere really, really far, and stay low. Batman knew who she was, yes, but how far would he be willing to go to get her? As far as she knew, she was just a random face to him, and it would take a while for him to nail her identity. Even if he did: would he waste his time tracking her in India or Dubai just for that crown?

Just to get her?

Probably not. He would probably just keep doing what he did, which was patrolling Gotham – a very demanding job as it was. And then, she would go back to her old life, traveling around the world and stealing pretty things, just like she was quite content to do a few months before.

_But you're Catwoman now_, said something inside her.

She was Catwoman, yeah. And she _loved_ that.

* * *

Alfred woke him up at one p.m..

"So sorry to disturb you this early in the day, Master Bruce", he apologized while opening the curtains, "but you have a visitor."

Bruce rubbed his eyes and sighed. "Tell them I'm sick, Alfred. Or out of town… "

"I'll do no such thing, sir." He grabbed the blankets and tossed them aside. "It's Thomas Elliot downstairs, and I believe he deserves more consideration from his childhood friend than to be told lies every day."

"You would be the one telling them", Bruce snarled.

"That would be funny if not sad, Master Bruce." As he walked out of the bedroom, he advised. "I recommend long sleeves, sir. The scratch marks on your shoulders and arms are very hard to explain as injuries from playing polo."

Getting out of bed was particularly hard, but Bruce counted his blessings when he glanced at his tired face at the mirror's bathroom: all and all, he could be in much worse shape considering all he went through the night before. No serious burns, a few bruises on his back, the scratches over his shoulders that Alfred found so curious. _"Are you sure that fighting was all you and Miss Kyle did last night?"_, he asked.

He had not answered the butler's amusing question, but the insinuation wasn't unfounded. Bruce couldn't deny that his feelings concerning Selina were conflicted, to say the least.

Right now, however, he didn't want to think about it. So much had happened, and discovering who was under Catwoman's cowl was just one of them. And if he had no idea of how he should deal with Selina and her criminal identity, well, at least he had something else to occupy his mind – like who had tried to kill them the night before. Now _that_ was a mystery indeed, and realizing he hadn't the slightest idea of who was responsible for that bothered him too much.

He took a quick shower, just enough to help him wake up. Alfred was downstairs entertaining Tommy Elliot, no doubt, leaving Bruce with the painful task of cleaning his wounds and changing bandages all by himself. In a way, a good thing: Bruce had no pity for himself, what made the whole ordeal less comfortable, sure, but a lot quicker also. As advised by Alfred, he chose a long sleeved, button-up dark shirt, and it did a good job concealing his most recent battle scars – except for a few scratches on his face and a distinct burning mark on his chin.

Bruce took a deep breath, again staring at his image on the mirror: for some reason, he was finding increasingly hard to keep his act of the shallow and unworried trust fund heir. He had never actually enjoyed it, despite Alfred's constant pleas that he should _have_ fun while pretending to do it, but now… now it was a painful effort. It felt like he was dragging himself around Gotham, and he wondered how long he could make it last before doing something that would finally drop his mask.

* * *

"Wow", exclaimed Tommy as soon as he laid eyes on Bruce. "What happened, buddy? Did you fall face down on a frying pan?"

Bruce forced a laugh. "Oh, cam' on… it's not that bad…"

"Yeah, I've seen worst…" Tommy shrugged. "Though usually after car crashes and bar's fist fights. You are not part of a fight club, are you?"

"No, no… didn't Alfred tell you?" Bruce glanced at the butler, and Alfred's slight move of the right eyebrow signed that he hadn't provided explanations or given any excuses.

"You know Alfie, Bruce… he hardly tells me anything these days. Really, the guy can keep a secret – I ask and ask, but he never gives me the scoops on your night adventures anymore…"

"Care for a drink?" Bruce led the way to the pool terrace, Tommy following him in a cool expression. "It's an hour and a half past noon, so it's not like we are alcoholics, or something like that."

"Ha-ha, very funny", said the doctor, already sat on one of the white chairs around the small, round table. "And no, I don't want anything. Well, maybe lemonade, or something like that."

"Sure, I guess Alfred can…"

"I'll bring it right away, sir." He blinked and eye in a playful gesture. "And a glass of virgin lemonade for you too, Master Bruce… we don't want your headache to get worst, right?"

"That's very… thoughtful, Alfred. Thank you."

Elliot seemed amused, smiling broadly while relaxing on his chair. "So… not going to tell me where you got those brand new scars?"

"They are not scars yet", Bruce gravely said. "Ski accident. I was in Aspen last Thursday, and bumped into… well, a snow bank. Landed face first, as you can see."

"Hm." Tommy removed his sunglasses and attentively examined his friend's face. "That does explain it, I guess. It must have been an ugly fall; you're lucky you didn't break your neck."

"Oh, yes. Very lucky." He accepted the glass of cold drink Alfred offered him. Elliot did the same.

"So, Bruce", he proceeded. "You must be wondering what brought me here so _early_ in the day – by the way, I apologize for making Alfred take you off of the bed, I told him he didn't have to…"

"Not a problem, Tommy. He would have done it anyway…"

"Yes, I would", the butler reassured. He had returned to the terrace with ice and a jar of water. "And I'm sure Master Bruce is glad to have you at his home."

Bruce just nodded and smiled, probably with less enthusiasm than he should. He liked Tommy Elliot, no doubt about it, but his old friend could be a nuisance sometimes. He talked too much, and usually about things that Bruce didn't care about: women, parties, cars. Every once in a while they did have an interesting conversation – usually when Tommy spoke about his Greek philosophers, an old habit that, unfortunately, the doctor didn't seem so into anymore. Or when they played chess, just like old times, in school – Elliot was still just as good, perhaps better. Back then, Tommy would always win; now, their game was much more balanced. The first few times they played, Bruce allowed Tommy to win; he observed Elliot's style, noticing how it hadn't changed much from their school days. Then, to keep things interesting, he played for real, and beat Tommy a couple times. It had been fascinating, how his old friend made his best to conceal his surprise and, why not say it, his fury. And, after that, Bruce had to admit, Tommy Elliot had improved his game; so much so that Bruce wondered if Tommy hadn't also been faking when they played those first few games.

Chess, however, was something they didn't do frequently. Most of Tommy's invitations were to parties, golf, sometimes company for a double date. Sadly, Bruce couldn't say no to those every time. It was part of his Bruce Wayne façade, and it didn't hurt that he had a trustable member of Gotham's society to vow for his playboy act. Too bad, Bruce thought, that Tommy had grown up to be an ordinary rich man, and not developed into someone more interesting, as interest, at least, as that odd and incredibly smart kid he was when they were in school.

"Yes, Tommy. It's always nice when you drop by."

"Good", he smiled. "I'll try to come more often."

Bruce did his best to return Elliot's smile. Then, he asked:

"Tell me, what brought you here today? You were saying…"

"Oh, yes, yes! Almost forgot." He leaned over the table, coming closer to Bruce. "It's about tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Yes, tonight! Mayor Garcia's birthday party… you didn't forget about it, did you?"

He definitely had. "The party… geez, I guess I _did_ forget. Is that tonight? Because I don't think I'll be able to make it, actually…"

"Really? Bruce, you have to go. It's a huge party."

Bruce gestured towards his own face. "Can't go like _this_, right?"

Tommy sighed. "Hm. I guess… well, I don't know, it's a good story to tell. Girls like scars, you know?"

"Sorry. Too many questions to answer, reporters will be all over me to tell what happened."

"I understand, buddy. That's too bad, though."

"Think like this: more ladies for you."

Elliot smirked, but nodded in disagreement. "No, no… you see, that's the thing: there's only _one_ woman I'm interested in, and that's exactly the one that seems to _not_ be interested."

"Oh, yeah? And who is that?"

Bruce held his breath waiting for the answer – in fact, he thought he already knew.

"Selina Kyle, of course", said Tommy.

Bruce wondered if the discomfort he felt in his stomach was showing in his features; all he knew was that he couldn't avoid pursing his lips and had no control over the heat that seemed to spread all over his face. His guess was that his uneasiness was obvious, since Alfred suddenly entered the terrace, pretended to trip and dropped the tray he had in his hands.

"Okay there, Alfie?" Elliot was about to leave his chair to assist the butler.

"Fine, Master Elliot, just fine… I'm so sorry, that's so clumsy of me…"

"Oh, it's all right, Alfie… I'm sure Bruce doesn't care if one of the hundred silver trays in this house gets a little bumped… right, buddy?"

"Right. Yes, no problem. Are you okay, Alfred?"

"I'm perfectly fine, sir. Please, don't get up." He picked up the tray and placed it under his arm. "No harm done; I just have to be more _careful_, you know. Watch my steps."

"You seem to be okay", assured Tommy. "If you want me to exam you…"

"No, no, Master Elliot. No need. Please, continue with your conversation." He smiled. "I'll be back in a moment with a snack."

"Thank you, Alfred", Bruce said, grateful for having someone like Alfred in his life. No doubt the butler had seen his expression and quickly intervened, saving him once again.

Tommy was talking:

"Really, Bruce, I don't think you can count on Alfie over there for much longer. Between you and me, it's about time he retires, don't you think?"

"You know Alfred, Tommy… he's not just a butler, he's… family."

"I understand", Elliot agreed. "Good old Jarvis, the chauffer my mother kept? I had to forbid him to work. The man had Parkinson, and still he wanted to drive me around… 'no way', I said. Kept paying his well deserved salary, but told him to stay home. You just have to make decisions like that sometimes, you know?"

Tommy's remark met nothing but silence from Bruce's part. He wondered if talking about Jarvis, who had been the Elliot family's chauffer for so many years, didn't bother Tommy. It was so long ago, even before his own parents' death, Bruce remembered: the car accident. A rainy night. Jarvis, the chauffer, apologizing profusely – the brakes of the car had failed, there was nothing the man could have done to avoid it… but Bruce didn't get it. He just couldn't understand how Tommy's mother could have kept Jarvis as her chauffer after he had been the one driving the car when her husband died.

He remembered his own father hugging Tommy during the funeral, how his friend had cried while clutching Thomas Wayne's shirt. Bruce had been too ashamed to admit it then, but now he knew: he had been jealous. He had envied all the attention his friend got; he resented how his own father had been so kind and so caring towards Tommy. He feel sorry for him, no doubt, and not even in his darkest dreams he imagined that one day, in not so long, his own father would be gone. But he was just a kid then, and he couldn't help but wonder if Tommy wasn't, even if just for a few brief moments, enjoying being the center of attentions.

Bruce would later feel endlessly guilty about the thought, of course. He saw Tommy during his own parents' funeral, his friend sternly saying how sorry he was for Bruce's loss. That reminded him that he had never told Tommy the same; selfish as he was back then, he had spend most of the funeral and burial of Tommy's dad sat in a corner, watching as people offered condolences to his young friend. And then, as he saw himself in that place Tommy had been months ago, Bruce knew: his friend was no longer a child, just like he wouldn't be one himself anymore.

"Bruce? Hey, Bruce? Are you listening?"

Tommy had just asked him something, and now demanded an answer. "Sorry, Tommy. No, I guess I wasn't listening, after all."

"Maybe I should exam you more carefully… Did you hit your head during that ski fall…?"

"I'm fine, _doctor_." He smiled. Having a neurosurgeon friend had been useful before, but it was also problematic sometimes. Dr. Elliot couldn't be easily fooled by his excuses for all the strange wounds he often displayed. "You were saying…"

"Well, what do you think? Should I ask her?"

"Ask her…?"

"Selina!" Now Tommy seemed slightly impatient. "Should I ask her to go to the party with me? Be my date? Tonight?"

"Tonight? You wanna ask her out…"

"God, Bruce, what is wrong with you? Honestly, I'm pretty sure you have a concussion…"

"No, Tommy, I'm ok. I just…" He ran his fingers through his damp hair, trying to mask his disconcertment. "I just don't understand… Selina? Really? I thought you were over her."

"I thought so too, my friend." Tommy's grimace felt oddly forced. His smile was automatic, impersonal, the smile he reserved for his polite social interactions with strangers. "But truth is I just can't get her out of my mind. You _saw_ her. She's gorgeous. And not just that. She's smart, self-confident, a little bossy. Not to mention, pretty different from the girls we usually date."

Tommy's description of Selina was very accurate – Bruce could have said those words himself.

"Sounds like you actually care for this one, don't you?" He hoped his words hadn't sound as lugubrious as he felt.

"Yeah, well. I've been thinking about settling down… ever since mother died I've been alone in that big house, and that can make a guy wonder if it's not time to start a family. Don't you think about that yourself?"

Bruce stared at Tommy, wondering how little he actually knew about his friend. If he studied Thomas Elliot carefully – his polite manners, his perfect appearance, the often vague and superficial conversations they had – what did he see? In fact, not so much. Maybe calling him a friend was quite a stretch: they shared virtually nothing that was meaningful, and Elliot had been as sincere and open towards him as… well, as he had been himself. All along Bruce knew he would have to keep Thomas Elliot in a safe distance; he had never intended to tell him about Batman, and never wanted Tommy involved in any way with his clandestine life. If he was to be perfectly honest, Thomas Elliot was, before anything, an alibi. He was _using_ the man.

But now he wondered if Tommy wasn't doing the same.

"I'm not cut out for the family life, Tommy."

"Oh, Bruce. You are. You just don't know it yet." Elliot stood up from his chair. "Nevertheless, it's time for me to go." As Bruce said nothing, he smiled and joked:

"Don't insist for me to stay, my friend… I know it's hard to see me go, but some of us have jobs and patients to attend to. That can't be helped."

Bruce also rose from his seat and offered a handshake.

"It was good to see you, Tommy."

"Same here, my friend."

As he walked Tommy to the door he asked, in his most casual tone:

"So, Selina… Do you think she'll come to the party?"

"I hope so. I mean, I'll invite her… and you know me: I don't take 'no' for an answer, and I never give up."

_Well_, Bruce thought, _yet another thing we have common._

And he intended to take advantage of it as well.


	7. Deception

Hello there.

New chapter. I'm introducing a new (old) character, it won't be a surprise to anyone, I guess. I think it's pretty interesting that I had thought of bringing this character to the story even before watching The Dark Knight Rises; I think it means most people that had watched the first two movies expected this appearance…

I'll talk no more. Let's get into it.

Thanks for reading!

AliaAtreidesBr

* * *

"It's just a guess", Thomas Elliot said, his back supported by his vibrant red, convertible Jaguar, "but I have the feeling you're avoiding me."

He was smiling, his tone was gentle, but Selina also had a feeling: that he wasn't either happy or used to wait for the women he usually dated, and even less familiar with having his phone calls rejected. She too had a guess – Thomas Elliot, right now, didn't like her very much.

She had seen his tall, broad silhouette, as soon as she opened the door of her brownstone. There he was: waiting for her, God knows for how long. He was dressed casually, like he had come from a game of golf, but she would bet he never made it to his game; for some reason, he had decided that standing on her doorstep was a better way of spending his Saturday afternoon.

"Hello, Tommy", she unenthusiastically greeted.

"Hello, Selina", he coldly returned. "I can see you're very happy to see me."

The sarcastic remark wasn't enough to affect her state of indifference. "Look, Tommy… I'm in a hurry. See you later, okay?"

That was a lie, of course, and one she didn't bother if it sounded like that. The reason Selina had left the house was mundane: she needed new scissors to finish her work, the tiresome task of mending her Catwoman outfit. If she decided to actually go to her _date_ later that night – could her meeting with Batman be called that? –, she needed her costume. She wasn't in a hurry, she was simply not in the mood to pretend that she was Selina Kyle, nice and gentle store owner that felt so flattered by Elliot's attention. Her only wish was to quietly walk a few blocks, buy what she needed and, maybe, get a cup of strong coffee on her way home. The Lord knew she needed that coffee… it was four p.m. and Selina _still_ felt beaten and tired, and was under the impression that she could sleep straight through the night and an entire day if given the chance.

"Selina", he called as she passed by him, now using a much gentler, pleasant tone. "Wait, please."

She hesitated; she shouldn't, but she did. _When did I became such a softie?_, she asked herself. "What do you want, Tommy?"

He looked at her in silence, his eyes closely examining her. He suddenly asked, honestly intrigued:

"What happened to your face?"

In an unconscious movement, she raised a hand to touch her right jaw and ear: there; there it was, scratches on her cheek and distinct burn marks on her neck and earlobe. It was nothing serious, not even painful, but easily perceived – especially if one is a doctor.

"An accident", she promptly answered. "Broke a cup full of hot tea."

"Close to your _face_?" He seemed slightly shocked.

"I fell, actually. On the floor. Coming down the stairs." She risked a faint smile. "The cup was on my hand, I almost smashed it with my forehead. In fact, I was very lucky; it's the kind of silly fall that can have serious consequences."

Elliot had a stern, intense expression on his face.

"I'm fine", she reassured.

"Yes", he quietly agreed. "You look fine."

He raised both hands and gently touched her face, getting closer to her and carefully studying her wounds. The contact of his fingers was warm, smooth, confident; they ran over her skin, feeling her cheekbone and jaw, slowly making their way down her neck. His stroke was light on her, even pleasant – it was obvious that Thomas Elliot knew very well what he was doing. Despite that, there was something in his touch that made Selina deeply uncomfortable, and she pulled off from his grasp quite abruptly, causing the doctor to react with surprise.

"Did that hurt?"

"No… no, it's just…"

She didn't know what to say, though. There was nothing in his careful, thoughtful exam that she could point as reason for her to feel uneasy, but that was how she felt nevertheless. Maybe, she wondered, it had something to do with Bruce…?

_Oh, no, you're not…_ She couldn't. She couldn't be thinking about Bruce Wayne like that. That would mean _trouble_, at best. If her life seemed complicated twenty four hours ago, now it was even _more_ complicated, to say the least.

"You need something for those burns, Selina." He placed both hands in his pockets, and took a few steps back. "I could write a prescription."

"No, don't bother… but thanks, anyway."

"It's not a problem." He held back for a moment, then assuming an intrigued expression. "Are you sure you're alright?"

His insistence was proof, Selina thought, that she was doing a remarkably poor job in hiding how _not_ alright she was.

"I've a lot on my mind today, Tommy. I can't talk. Maybe next week, or…"

"Tonight?"

She smirked; his audacity was somewhat surprising, and she couldn't help but find it a little insulting. "I'm busy tonight, Tommy."

"It' the Mayor's birthday", he insisted. "Big party at Gotham's Grand Hotel… Have you ever been there?"

"I'm sure it's wonderful", she politely answered, "but again: I'm busy."

"Another date?" He smiled, but his voice was hoarse, unable to disguise his disappointment.

Her own smile was purposely ambiguous.

"Oh", he uttered, "I see. I have competition, then?"

"It's not like that, Tommy." She shrugged, trying to show some measure of indifference. "It's work related, actually. Nothing as fancy as a party at the Grand Hotel, but…"

"Are you going to meet with Bruce?" His interruption was abrupt, his tone hostile.

"Bruce?" Her surprise was sincere; the question had been disconcerting, especially because she couldn't remember a single moment in which she had spoken of Bruce Wayne with Thomas Elliot. "No, no…! This has nothing to do with Bruce…" She raised her eyes and locked his gaze on hers. "Why would you think that?"

He avoided her scrutinizing eyes and lowered his head, facing his own feet. When he spoke, he did in a calmer and collected tone. "Bruce mentioned. He said you had been spending time together."

"He did, hm?"

_Damn, Bruce. Never thought you were the kind to kiss and tell…_ But why wouldn't he? She had a different impression of him, no doubt, but she could very well be wrong.

"It's my fault, I know." Now Dr. Elliot seemed very much in control of his emotions, his expression again confident and self-assured. "I know I've neglected our relationship…"

"There was no 'relationship', Tommy. We had just met."

"I know that", he agreed. "But I wanted to develop one. Can't you tell?"

He allowed himself a disconcerted, strangled chuckle.

"It seems that Bruce beat me into it… yet again." There was a hint of sadness in that remark.

"I'm not a trophy, Tommy. I'm not something to be _disputed_, or won…!" She took a deep breath, trying to clear her mind and think straight. "Besides, I don't know what your friend Bruce Wayne told you, but we are hardly intimate."

"Well", he said, his voice little more than a whisper, "that's certainly not what he implied."

Selina didn't answer that – she was now wondering if there was truth in Elliot's words, and if there was, she wondered how she could have fooled herself to that extent. Bruce Wayne was indeed a notorious ladies' man, but their afternoon together had left her under the impression that there was a lot of Bruce's public façade that was just that: a mask. Perhaps the rich boy act was a character that Bruce struggled to impersonate; now she considered, however, that maybe her part in his life was also for the benefit of such role.

"I'm sorry, Selina. I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not", she bluntly said. "I'm a big girl, and I've dealt with jerks before."

"Hey, look, I'm not here to vilify Bruce…"

"Then _why_ _are_ you here, Tommy?" She finally surrendered.

"I think I told you already… the Mayor's party?"

_That's right_, she thought, _big party in a big, fancy hotel…_ Maybe she could use some distraction. Look at pretty things, drink a few glasses of expensive champagne and spend other people' money.

Besides, her experience told her that places like those were always tempting for an audacious cat-burglar.

* * *

"I thought you were not going to Mayor Garcia's birthday party, Master Bruce", observed Alfred as soon as Bruce came down the stairs of Wayne Manor, already fully dressed in his tuxedo.

"I wasn't, Alfred." He looked around the hall, like he was in search for something.

"Do you need anything, sir?"

"Do we have any spare keys to the front door, Alfred?"

The butler seemed intrigued. "We certainly do, sir." He patiently watched as Bruce looked inside the drawers of the buffet near the entrance. "Is that what you are looking for, Master Bruce? The keys to the front door?"

Bruce turned to face Alfred, running his fingers through his dark hair. "I seemed to have misplaced my set of keys, Alfred."

"You did, sir", Alfred solemnly confirmed. "A couple years ago."

"That long?" He was just mildly surprised.

"I'm afraid so, sir."

"I guess I need a new one, then."

"You have one, sir." The butler reached for Bruce's tie, adjusting it to the right position. "It's on your desk, by the computer."

"Are you sure? I never noticed it, Alfred, I think you're mistaken."

"No, sir… it's on the _other_ desk… the one here at the house."

"Oh", Bruce mumbled.

"It's an honest mistake, sir. After all, you haven't been at your office here, upstairs, in quite a long time. Almost as long as you haven't used the front door, I'm afraid."

"Alfred…"

"Are you driving tonight, sir?"

"Don't I do it every night?"

"I meant…"

Bruce smiled. "I know what you meant, Alfred. And yes, I am. The Lamborghini, I guess."

"Good choice, sir."

"I know, Alfred. I know it is."

* * *

Selina entered the White Ballroom of Gotham's Grand Hotel holding Thomas Elliot's arm and wearing his most charming smile, but her mind was traveling far, submerged in an ocean of memories.

Although she would never publicly confess, she knew that hotel, and knew it pretty well – she had worked there, over ten years ago, just before she had left Gotham. In a way, she could say it had been one of the few, if not the only "honest" job she had ever had: as a maid that would clean hotel rooms. But calling it honest would be kind of… well, kind of a lie.

Truth was that in the few months she worked there she had made good money; first by cleaning rooms during the day and making mental lists of valuable items people had in their luggage and inside the hotel's safe. And then, in her days off, or during nighttime, she would use a variable option of tricks to steal anything that had stroked her as expensive or simply beautiful.

She was just a kid back then, Selina admitted, but had made good profit nevertheless. It was the money of those first days that had bought the fake passport and her first high quality equipment that made her famous in Europe. Not to mention the experience: she had had all kinds of them, and had tested an enormous sort of approaches, most of it self-taught and developed in the darkness of her own rented little apartment in the Narrows, just before she fell asleep. It was funny how things had worked out, Selina thought: there she was again, apparently with such a better life. Wasn't she now all she ever wished to be?

"Can I get you something to drink?" It was Thomas Elliot asking her that, smiling politely and seeming unexplainably pleased.

"Sure", she nodded, trying to sound less indifferent than she actually felt. She hoped her half-smile was enough to pass for enthusiasm. The truth, however, was that now Selina wondered if she had come to that party for the wrong reason.

She had said yes to Elliot's invitation because she thought there would be something for her there. She pictured hotel guests that had come to Gotham only for that special occasion, bringing with them their best clothes, jewels, credit cards, money. _What were you thinking?_, she tortured herself. _That you would invade hotel rooms and take a few trinkets, just for old times' sake?_

That wasn't her anymore, and now she understood it.

But she _had_ fooled herself. She had talked herself into it for the wrong reason, but she did want to be there; and why? For the worst reason of all, she now admitted.

She wanted to see Bruce Wayne.

* * *

Bruce arrived pretty early at the party, for a change.

Soon he was surrounded by people, all trying to get his attention with this or that topic. Someone placed a glass of wine in one of his hands, and pictures were taken. Mayor Garcia thanked him for his presence, and a dozen other people shared handshakes with him. He tactfully answered questions and divided his attention, but a feeling of urgency made him uneasy: that wasn't why he was there.

Lucius Fox's familiar face drew his attention, and he excused himself to approach him.

"Bruce Wayne", he greeted. "I wasn't expecting to see you here, my friend."

"Quite frankly, Mr. Fox, neither was I."

"And what brings you to this futile, though surprisingly popular event, Mr. Wayne?" He lowered his tone, making his words audible only to Bruce. "I imagined you were already _busy_ tonight…"

"Heard about last night, it seems."

"It was a big and loud explosion, Mr. Wayne… and I live just a couple blocks from the Odyssey Tower, as you know."

"I forgot. Maybe I should have stopped by."

"You would have been welcomed." Lucius answered in his usual humorous tone. "Tell me now; is there a special reason for Bruce Wayne to make an appearance?"

"Personal reasons, Mr. Fox." Once again Bruce ran his gaze around the room, searching for another familiar face.

"Oh. I had no idea you were back to your dating life."

"Who said anything about dating?" Bruce's voice betrayed his slight exasperation; his frustration came from the fact that, lately, he had often failed in concealing his own emotions and intentions.

"Bruce", Lucius gravely declared, "at some point, we all deserve a happy ending."

He took Fox's words in silence, wondering if that was true even for Batman.

* * *

Selina didn't miss his entrance – it was an impossible feat, anyway. Eyes were drawn to him, as usual, and Tommy was one of them:

"There's Bruce", he casually commented.

She nodded, and drank another full glass of champagne. It was her third, and she began wondering what would be like to jump over rooftops when you are more than a little inebriated.

If Tommy had any intentions of speaking to his childhood friend, he didn't declare them immediately. He just found her another drink and seemed content to stay on his seat, right next to hers, in one of the many tables set around the room.

Selina quietly watched as Bruce walked over the room, being constantly stopped by other people to be greeted or have brief conversations. She was still following his advance when he engaged in a longer, apparently friendlier exchange with an older gentleman. _Lucius Fox_, she remembered; they had been introduced at that Gallery party, and Tommy later told her this Fox guy was actually the man calling the shots in Wayne Enterprises. She hadn't noticed then, but now she had the impression that Bruce and Fox were pretty close.

"Enjoying the party?" It was Tommy speaking, his face close to her left ear, one of his hands lightly caressing her exposed back.

"So far, so good", she coldly answered, moving away from his touch.

_And now I have to deal with that…_ It seemed that Dr. Elliot was no longer willing to keep their relationship platonic; that meant they had finally hit the ending point. Tommy's behavior had gradually changed, she noticed, ever since they had arrived at the party. He was getting more and more audacious in his advances, even though Selina thought she had not encouraged him in any way.

She wouldn't deny that Thomas Elliot was an attractive man. There was no lack of attributes in that man, both physically and intellectually, not mention all the money and pedigree. He was gallant in his own way, fond of philosophical quotes and polite to an extreme; erudite, loved arts, he was even occasionally funny. Then why, Selina caught herself speculating, she felt increasingly uncomfortable around him?

It was hard to locate a specific trait or behavior, but Selina knew it was there. Much like she had seen cracks in Bruce Wayne's mask, she could also see that Thomas Elliot had something to hide. And yes, she knew that often people – all kinds of people – had skeletons in their closets, but the feeling she had about Elliot was… well, worst.

She thought about Bruce, and how it was now clear to her that he struggled to keep people at a safe distance, how he desperately tried to prevent anyone to know him – the _real_ him, the man that rested below the surface. But she saw that; she saw his constant conflict, and how he moved forward and back in that _persona_ that Bruce Wayne, the heir, the rich boy, the shallow playboy, wanted to appear for the eyes of the world.

Thomas Elliot… Tommy was a different business. He was also playing a part, but Selina hadn't been able to quite understand what it was. Whatever he was hiding, it had an ugly face – and that was why he did it. She knew that, deep inside, Tommy wouldn't like anything more than show to the world what he really, _really_ was. But he couldn't; he couldn't, Selina believed, because whatever it was, it was too damn horrible for people to put up with.

* * *

Bruce saw them: both sat around one of the tables, their backs on his line of sight. He saw as Tommy leaned toward her, speaking softly at her ear, his lips almost touching her neck. Then, he lifted one of his hands and gently stroked the skin of her graceful, slender back; a gesture of intimacy, Bruce thought, one that brought a bitter taste to his mouth.

He approached the table by Selina's side.

"Hey", he said, hoping that his smile could disguise his uneasiness.

Tommy widened his eyes in surprise. "Bruce, hey! I thought you were not coming tonight…!"

"Changed my mind, Tommy." He looked down at Selina, who had stood in her seat in complete silence, barely looking at him. "Selina. How are you?"

"Fine", she answered. Her gaze was indifferent, her tone, harsh.

He didn't expect the animosity in her voice – some awkwardness, maybe, but her indifference was something he would have not anticipated.

"Have a seat, my friend", Tommy invited.

"I don't mean to intrude…"

"It's no intrusion", Selina bluntly said. "Your presence will certainly make our table the most popular one in the entire school", she mocked.

Bruce took a seat close to Selina, staring at her in an inquisitive expression while doing it. All she did, though, was to look away from him.

_Tommy… What did you do?_ It couldn't be by mere coincidence that Selina had at once accepted Elliot's invitation and was also treating him with such coldness.

"You know?" It was Tommy speaking, a silly smile on his lips. "Bruce _didn't_ seat at the 'popular kids' table when we were in high school. We would actually spend most of our lunch breaks playing chess; do you remember it, Bruce?"

"Sure", he answered absentmindedly; his attention was still on Selina, who now glanced at him in silence. Her gaze was firm, but her expression had a distinguished touch of melancholy. Bruce wondered if Selina even realized that, the champagne perhaps clouding her self-awareness. Nevertheless, he spoke in a soft tone, almost a whisper:

"What happened to your face?" There it was: burning marks and scratches, that he very well knew where had come from.

"I fell", she simply replied. "Yours?"

"Oh, he suffered a bad ski accident in Aspen, didn't you, Bruce?" It was Tommy cutting in.

Selina frowned, her eyes translating obvious disbelief. _Of course_, Bruce pointed out, _she saw me yesterday, and I was neither hurt or in Aspen. _How stupid, clumsy of him… he should have predicted that something like that would happen – why did he expose himself like that? Why did he come to that party? Why risk his disguise like that…?

But he knew why.

* * *

Selina stared at Bruce in amazement, watching his incredible reaction when suddenly caught in a lie:

Nothing.

Oh, he was a better, much better liar than she ever imagined. He knew, he certainly _knew_ that she was perfectly aware of the falsehood in the dumb story about Aspen. It was admirable, however, how he had not flinched or hesitated, how he didn't hint in anyway his delicate position. She was the one that now probably seemed confused, unsure of what to do. Denounce him in public? Expose him to Tommy as the phony he in fact was?

Or keep quiet?

He lied. He had lied, and Selina instantly knew he wouldn't back down. Not to Tommy. The thing was… she wouldn't either.

She too was a liar. She also had her secrets, and she knew pretty well her story was also hanging by a thread. Besides, if she kept quiet, that lie was something… something she had on Bruce Wayne. Something she could eventually _use_.

"Rich people", she remarked with amusement, "glamorous even when they fall."

In a curious synchronicity, both Tommy and Bruce chuckled.

"Selina! Bruce!" Behind them, someone called.

"Leslie", Selina immediately recognized. "Good to see you!"

There she was, the founder of Gotham Narrows' Home for Girls, smiling with joy. "It's good to see you too, Selina. I was actually looking for you", Leslie admitted.

"Were you?" She wondered for a moment about how Leslie even knew she would be there, but the answer came to her quickly: because of Bruce. They had been at the orphanage together barely twenty four hours ago – how could Leslie imagine that such a fresh relationship had already turned bitter?

"I wanted to introduce you to someone", Leslie proceeded. She took a step to the side and waved towards a young woman next to her. "This is Talia Head."

"Nice to meet you", the woman promptly said, smiling and reaching for Selina's hand. Accepting the handshake, Selina took a moment to exam to woman: young, gorgeous, undeniably rich. Talia had long, meticulously cared hair, that fell over her shoulders almost to her waist. Her skin had a beautiful bronze-like tone, and her eyes had an exotic golden color, framed in long eyelashes and perfectly shaped eyebrows. She wasn't remarkably tall, but her body was notably well proportioned, fitting with perfection in the Valentino she wore. The dress wasn't too revealing, but showed enough to turn heads all over the room – that, and also because of the one thing Selina was immediately drawn to: the emerald necklace she proudly displayed, a dazzling piece of jewelry that was composed by six emeralds, the largest one as big as a silver dollar.

"Talia is also a benefactor of our orphanage", Leslie explained. "She founded a non-profit organization that manages donations to several homes like ours across the world."

"Oh, yeah?" Selina was vaguely interested in that information. "You're not from Gotham, I assume."

"No, I'm not…" The woman's smile was candid and graceful. "I'm actually a citizen of the world, so to speak. Born in Italy, studied in England, spend my childhood travelling across Europe and Asia… currently, I live in Metropolis."

"Talia, is it?" It was Thomas Elliot speaking, entering the conversation even though he wasn't invited or encouraged to. "I'm sure you and my friend Bruce Wayne here have a lot to talk about… he also spend most of his young years traveling around the world, didn't you, Bruce?"

"Yes", he answered coldly, displeased by Tommy's remark.

If Talia noticed, she didn't show. Smiling, she turned her attention to Bruce:

"Well, I would very much like to hear about the adventures that led Bruce Wayne to leave his life as rich heir and made him disappear from the face of Earth…!" The woman seemed to be sincerely curious, even fascinated. "Your story has the elements of a legendary tales…"

"Please, no…" Selina noticed how Bruce had turned from indifferent to suddenly flattered. "It's no legend, and you could hardly call my travelling days adventurous… I was just trying to know the world beyond Gotham, that's all."

Even though no one had offered, Talia took the seat next to Bruce.

"You did in the most unexpected way, didn't you? I spent a semester in Princeton doing research for my PhD a few years ago, and you dropping out still is something people talk about over there…"

_Great_, Selina bitterly mused, _another snob joins the club… _The topic had never came up, but Selina wondered how those people around that table would react if they knew she hadn't even graduated in Middle School. Not by choice, of course: once upon a time she had been a smart and tenacious little girl that would have teachers praising her talents and foreseeing a bright future for her… but that was then. When she had a mother and a roof over her head, and hadn't had to quit school because the principal insisted she had to go back to the orphanage.

"Look at Bruce", it was Tommy, again speaking to close to her ear. "Guess he and this Talia have a lot in common, wouldn't you say? It's been a while since I saw him connecting with someone so quickly…"

Selina gazed at them, Bruce playing with his glass of champagne – completely full – and telling tales of distant lands he had visited; Talia listening and smiling, her eyes watching attentively, the expression on her face translating admiration and amusement.

"A match made in heaven", she said, her glance falling again on the astonishing necklace Talia wore. "It's fate working in mysterious ways indeed."

* * *

"Would you like to dance?" Talia asked, a sweet, gracious smile punctuating the question.

She was a nice girl, he admitted. Not just that: she was also funny and intelligent, not to mention gorgeous and surprisingly likeable – he wouldn't expect a woman like her to be so… kind. She even reminded him of Rachel, somehow: the way she spoke, this or that gesture. It was all very subtle, but still; it made him feel like she was familiar, and again brought memories of Rachel back into his mind.

"Bruce?" She insisted. "Did you hear me?"

He returned her smile and leaned back on his chair. "I would very much like to, my dear, but…" He pointed his ankle. "Ski accident. Not completely healed yet."

For the first time in that night, he read disappointment in her face. "Are you sure? I love this song, and…"

"That's it!" Tommy Elliot had suddenly stood up from his seat, quickly advancing to Talia and taking her hand. "I can't take it: a beautiful lady asking for a dance, and no gentleman to fulfill her desire? That's inconceivable."

Bruce smirked, and noticed that Selina did the same: apparently, she didn't care one bit that her date was about to escort another woman around the room.

"I'll take this offer", Talia answered, amused. She reached a hand to touch Bruce's arm, however, and whispered: "I'll be right back… to finish our conversation."

As Tommy and Talia distanced themselves, Bruce turned to Selina; before he could speak, though, her question was already there:

"What happened to your face?"

She seemed intrigued, her curiosity overcoming her initial indifference towards him.

"Not now", he said. Then, in a whisper: "Not _here_."

"Not here?" She ignored his caution completely, repeating his words without caring about her tone. "_Where_ then? When?"

"Later." He stated. She was getting increasingly impatient, he could see, and that could be dangerous for the both of them. "Can you leave now?"

"You mean with you."

"Yes."

She hesitated. "No… I can't. I…"

"It's important", Bruce insisted.

"No." Her tone was adamant, as was her cold expression. "There's something I need to do."

"Selina." Again in a whisper, his tone almost supplicant. "Trust me."

He was surprised to notice how those words affected her, her green eyes fixed on his', her face torn in doubt. "Bruce…"

"Please. _Trust me_. Come with me." He gently placed his hand over hers, studying her features as she quietly examined his own face and gaze.

She sighed, slowly closing her eyelids and retracting her hand. "I _can't_. I just can't."

In an abrupt gesture she raised and, almost running, never glancing back, left the ballroom.


	8. Deathstroke, Part I

**Sunday, 2:00 A.M.**

**Now**

Batman entered her house through the balcony on the top floor – her bedroom's window, he realized.

The first thing he noticed were the clothes scattered on the floor and over the king-sized bed, gala dresses treated as ordinary, cheap things. He walked carefully, minding every step of the way so to keep his heavy, wet boots from ruining one of those fine garments. Lights were off, except for the closet: a feeble luminescence came from there, creating more shadows then actually helping any one see around the suite.

There was a suitcase open in the middle of the closet, neither completely full nor empty. It was like she had begun packing and then changed her mind, leaving personal items and random things piled up or gathered over the floor and shelves. Next to it, just a few feet from the bag, the large, long mirror, where he suddenly saw himself reflected in full costume. What a dark, ugly thing he was, Batman recognized; a few steps further, though, and he could see more details: his scratched armor, his damaged mask, his tired eyes. Long gone were the days in which he felt so powerful and invincible when in his battered uniform.

He lowered his glance to notice this: the dress Selina had wore that night, at the party in the Grand Hotel. She certainly had undressed in front of the mirror, leaving it where it had fell while she put on something else – he could very well figure out the outfit of her choice. _Catwoman_ – so that was the exact spot where the metamorphosis took place.

Absentmindedly, he bent down and took the dress in his hands. Taking a closer look at it, he saw the stains: dark, dry spots of what he was sure it was blood. Could it be?

_Selina_, he anxiously wondered, _what the hell happened to you?_

* * *

**Saturday, 10:37 P.M.**

**Then**

She had already walked an entire block when Thomas Elliot finally reached her.

"Selina", he yelled several times, "Selina, stop!"

She didn't turn nor stopped, marching in resolute, quick steps. When he grasped her forearm, she winced.

"Don't do that", she hissed. "Don't _ever_ do that!"

He took a step back. "Hey, hey… Calm down…" His tone was soft, and he had his hands raised up like a man trying to show he wasn't armed. "I just want to _talk_…!"

"Well, I _don't_." Nevertheless, she had halted on the sidewalk, her arms now wrapped around herself as she improvised some protection from the bitter wind that blew.

"Are you gonna walk all the way home?"

"Not all of us need drivers, Tommy", she cynically pointed out. "And I can get a cab."

He couldn't debate that. Still, he smiled:

"Fine. You don't need me, I get it. Care to tell me just one thing, though?"

"What's that?"

"Why do you always end up running away after you and Bruce talk?"

Selina privately thought that twice was hardly a pattern, but there was no denying that most of her conversations with Bruce usually ended like that: her walking away, always confused, often eager to put on her mask and knock people down with her fists to ease her frustration.

Not to mention the _stealing things_ part, of course.

"It doesn't concern you, Tommy", she bluntly stated.

"I think it does, actually… You _are_ my date, at least for the night." He frowned. "Or did you accept my invitation just for that? So you could come here and spit at Bruce's face?"

"That wasn't what happened."

"Okay", he agreed. "And I don't care. Maybe you wanted to tell him a few things; I _hope_ you did, anyway."

She said nothing, unwilling to give Elliot any clues about the conversation that took place between Bruce and her.

"If this is your way of saying it's over, okay, fine. It's over. But I'm not the kind of guy that would let his date walk home by herself."

Selina sighed; she had stormed out of the party, but hadn't really thought about getting home. She could walk, yeah, or take the cab; accepting Elliot's ride, though, was out of the question.

"I'm a big girl, Tommy. I know most women you date wouldn't want to ruin their pretty shoes on the sidewalk, but I actually _like_ walking."

"I'll keep you company, then."

"No need."

"Selina", he insisted, "this is Gotham. It's not safe."

She smirked. "Right. I can handle, Tommy, I promise. Downtown Gotham doesn't scare me one bit."

"C'mon, Selina… give me a break. I'm just trying to be a gentleman." He matched her pace as she started walking again. "Besides, didn't you hear about the guy kidnapping women…"

"Oh, I heard it…!" She emphasized; indeed she had heard, following with interest the news about the disappearance of young women and the state of their mutilated bodies whenever they were found. "And you know what?"

"What?"

"I actually _hope_ this maniac crosses my way. I would very much like that."

"Oh, yeah?" Thomas Elliot seemed intrigued, even amused by her remark.

"You bet."

"Well, Selina… you better not joke about it…"

"It's no joke, Tommy."

"It better be", he insisted. "Or else… you better be careful what you wish for."

* * *

**Sunday, 2:13 A.M.**

**Now**

There was no noise or sign, but Dr. Thomas Elliot didn't need those. He rarely slept at nights, anyway, and usually spent those on his private office downstairs or in his bedroom, often reading medical papers or writing in his diary – unless he was down there, of course, down at the basement… but not tonight.

Tonight, instead, he had arrived, hours before, and just sat in the darkness of his living room. The wide glass doors that led to the terrace and gave view to the yard were closed, but that didn't spoil the view to the garden. Rain poured outside, a summer storm, lightning stroking frequently and giving a beautiful sight of the night. Not far from there, he knew, his old pal Bruce Wayne climbed and jumped over the city, perhaps intrigued about the whereabouts of his little girlfriend Selina… Oh, how Tommy wished to be able to see Bruce's face when he finally found her…

In the darkness he smiled, not minding the throbbing pain in his leg or the scent of blood that filled the room. _That_, he enjoyed.

He mused about that in the solitude of his cold, shady room, when he suddenly realized: he wasn't alone. He knew it, and not because something concrete and palpable had come to his attention, but because he felt it. It was the one thing he always had about that house, that connection; he knew all the corners and secrets, all the particular behaviors of the place he was born and raised in. And he knew, just knew it: there was someone in there.

Again he thought of Bruce. If his childhood friend decided to come for him, would he do it like that? Breaking into his house, trying to surprise him in the shadows of his own home? It could very well be. Maybe it was him, Batman, that strange persona, walking around his house. Searching. Hoping to find Dr. Thomas Elliot and perhaps teach him a lesson. Ah, that wouldn't be so bad, right? He and Bruce, together in this final faceoff. Tommy would rejoice at the mere thought.

And he saw the light. The subtle luminescence that insinuated itself from under the door.

Downstairs. Down there. The basement. His secret little room…

If there was someone there, if _Batman_ was there, then he would know. The whole truth. About the girls. About whom Thomas Elliot was. Tommy wondered: he could walk back, take a few steps to his left and run through the door. Escape. Leave his life as the gifted, rich, charming neurosurgeon behind and start a new one. He had made a few arrangements; it could work.

Or he could go upstairs. Look at the mirror. Open the window in his bedroom, the suite that had belonged to his mother for so long, that hideous room that sheltered so many bad things and memories… and he could jump. Down there, on the slippery, cold Spanish stones of his paved deck, he would crash and die. Open his skull in a pool of blood and cracked bones, his pleasant appearance destroyed at once in abrupt violence. That wouldn't be so bad either.

But he could reach for the gun he kept tied to his ankle, and he did. It wasn't the weapon of his choice, just a small pistol that wouldn't have a chance in hell against, say, Bruce's body armor, but it was a start. He had better guns hidden all over the house, but wondered if they would make a difference if it was really Bruce down there. Batman was supposed to be able to deal with fire weapons, right?

_No_, he thought while coming down the basement stairs, _if it's Bruce, I'll go for the scalpel. _He tried to picture it: the instruments tray right by the door, all the deadly blades at his reach. Bruce would worry about the girl first, no doubt, and he would either have her with him or she would be close. So Tommy would threaten the girl and…

He halted.

He held his breath, eyes fixed ahead. Just a few feet from him, the secret door of his little, private room… open.

Lights were on, bright and shine, tarnishing his vision. He had a partial sight of the room, white walls and the floor. And on the floor, blood. Crimson, dark, recent blood.

He lowered his gun and entered the room.

* * *

**Saturday, 11:14 P.M.**

**Then**

"Well", Selina said as they reached her front door. "Thank you for walking me home, Tommy."

He was by her side, watching attentively as she unlocked the door and set foot in her house.

"Goodbye, Selina." He smiled. "Won't you invite me in?"

"It's late", she promptly answered, "and I'm tired. Maybe some other time…?"

Elliot chuckled, but he didn't really seem to find the situation funny. His eyes sparkled in the darkness of that night, suggesting anger and resentment. "C'mon, Selina… You're not even going to offer me a place to wait for my cab?"

She sighed. "I don't know, Tommy. I have things to deal with and…"

He was surprisingly quick, attacking like a viper: he pushed her inside by forcing his body against hers, and his hands went for her wrists. His grasp was surprisingly strong, and as she lost her balance for a moment, he twisted her right arm and threw her on the floor of her own hall, painfully pressing a knee against her back.

"Get _off_ me!" She growled, furious that something like that was happening to her. She heard the door closing behind them, and Tommy Elliot's heavy, loud breath as he grinded his teeth close to the back of her neck.

"_Hush_…", he whispered, his voice hoarse and barely recognizable, "Hush, now… don't fight…"

Selina didn't comply: she coiled under his grip and howled, freeing her right hand from his hard, cold clutch. He didn't expect that, apparently, and tried to regain his dominance over her by bending her left arm and pulling it hard, his leg now pressing the rest of her body down:

"Stop it…!" He commanded in a trembling, enraged voice.

She would not stop; Selina knew it too well that if she did, if she didn't escape him now, than things would get much, much worst.

And so she stretched her free hand to take hold of the rug that was under a tall, slim little table by the entrance door. She had barely reached it when Elliot fulfilled his threat: he pushed her body down by using his own weight, and pulled her arm firmly.

_Pain_. Such an agonizing pain as Selina felt her arm drawn out of its socket, the gritting sound of her joints and muscle screaming by the violence of that movement. She too screamed, hurt and frustrated, her eyes tearing beyond her control, the taste of blood in her mouth as she bit her own tongue, her lungs struggling out of the pain in search for air.

His laugh.

But she did not stop. She took hold of it, the rug, and pulled it to drop the table and the vase over it, the glass shattering on the sudden fall. She felt Elliot's fingers tangling, clawing her dark hair and pulling her head back, his other hand almost closing around her neck…

That's when she buried the shard of glass in his leg.

It was his turn to scream, wail in agony as she didn't restrain herself: with all her might she pierced his flesh, feeling the glass cut through the skin and muscle of his right thigh, turning it inside him until he had to let go of her hair and push her away. She fell on the floor again, but now quickly regained her balance, turning to watch the rage, hate, pain in Thomas Elliot's features.

"Get out", she snarled, taking hold of another piece of glass. Wounded or not, she knew her position was fragile: she had one less limb to fight him.

She saw the doubt in his eyes, how he pondered, even through the pain, if he should stay and, Selina shivered, probably try to kill her. Whatever intentions he had before, she had no doubts: now, he wanted to kill her.

"This is not over, Selina", he said, but not enraged or agitated. He said it in a cold, threatening tone – and that was scarier than she thought it would be.

"It isn't", she agreed.

He limped his way out, never turning his back on her. As he reached a safe distance from the door, she ran to it and shut it close at once, locking it in a hurry and then, sobs now coming uncontrollably through her throat, rested her tired, wounded body against the solid wood.

_No_, she told herself, forcing her tired legs to move, _you can't rest. _She couldn't: Dr. Elliot was out there, furious, and he would come back. Maybe not that night, but eventually. She had no time to rest, or take a break.

She had to get all better, and pretty fast…

Because there was a man she needed to kill.

* * *

**Sunday, 2:25 A.M.**

**Now**

Batman kneeled on the floor, examining shards of glass and traces of blood that were spread on the ground around him. It was the hall, just ahead of the entrance door, in a complete mess.

He was a detective. He might not have many clues, but he could picture a scenario. The scratch marks on the floorboards, for example, the parallel lines in an irregular pattern: those were from nails. Long nails, strong and belonging to someone that was struggling with might, someone that had only one free hand to fight.

Selina.

_What happened?_ He would ask himself that same question over and over, watching the trail of blood that helped shape footsteps in bright red, at least three different pairs of them dancing in an apparently illogical way. His trained eye could read something there, though, a story of some sort, a tragic tale that brought distress to his heart.

There were the footsteps of the person that had bled profusely, _male _tracks if he was to judge by size, weight and shape. This one limped, he noticed, at least on his way out the door. Fancy, expensive shoes this man wore: almost identical to Bruce Wayne's shoes, the exact pair he had used that night at the Mayor's party. It _would_ be the same, actually, if not for the fact that the pair that had been printed in red was slightly smaller.

Then there were the female's footsteps, high heels, its marks lighter and less clear: Selina, no doubt, who had barely stepped on the blood and who had, for some reason, walked in a hesitant, faltered pace across the hall and then upstairs.

The last pair was also female, and he could only assume it was Selina's also. Barefoot marks, coming and going through the hall, striding all around the house. Like she had been busy with something, too busy to care about cleaning that mess or even her own feet.

Oh, yes, something had happened there, something violent, brutal, something that had hurt Selina, no doubt, and yet so urgent that she had to go out and…

And what?

Had she left? Was she running away? Or had she dressed on her outfit and went out with a purpose…?

Those male footsteps, in fancy shoes. Batman believed he knew to whom they belonged.

He remembered earlier that night, the party. How Selina had suddenly left, and how he had stood up and tried to follow her. She was so stubborn and proud, and also agile: walking swiftly among the crowd, quickly putting herself out of sight. He didn't give up, he wouldn't – he would have reached her if not for Talia.

She had abruptly showed in his path, smiling tenderly:

"Leaving already?"

"Yes", he answered quite brusquely. "I have an emergency to deal with right now."

"An emergency?" She seemed both surprised and incredulous. "Nothing serious, I hope…"

"It's something that requires my attention", he simplified.

Talia smiled sardonically. "I hope it's nothing with Miss Kyle…"

"Selina? No, it's not…" He took a deep breath, regaining his coolness. "Selina is just a friend."

"Oh, I know. She's with Dr. Elliot, isn't she?"

"They are _also_ just friends."

"Are they? Well, he seemed pretty invested when he followed her out of the ballroom."

_Tommy_, Bruce concluded, his eyes on the blood stains that tainted the sidewalk out of Selina's house. Not much to see – the rain that was dying had washed out most of it. He went inside once again, avoiding being seen on the street of a quiet, uneventful neighborhood.

Not so uneventful, it seemed. If he was right, Selina had been attacked right there, right inside her house, and by the very man that had, hours before, escorted her around a room full of respectable, rich, concerned citizens of Gotham. One of those men, one of those very men, who were supposed to be an educated, polite gentleman, had brutalized and harmed a woman in her own house. Had pushed her on the floor, had ripped her expensive dress, had tried to… tried…

Again he searched the floor, and again, to his relief, he found no signs that sexual violence had actually taken place. That was a poor console, but it was something. Something he could tell himself when he finally found Tommy, and had his hands around his neck. Something that would help him keep control over his actions.

But Selina… would she be able to do the same?

* * *

**Saturday, 11:44 P.M.**

**Then**

That shoulder was killing her.

The mere sight of it brought nausea to her stomach, or would have, if she wasn't already throwing up from the pain. It wasn't her _first_ dislocated shoulder – in her life of jumping over rooftops, climbing walls, and the inevitable clashes with security guards and street scum, she had had the unwelcomed opportunity of suffering similar wounds. She had flexible joints, no doubt, and if that worked on her favor most times, well, now it didn't. Thomas Elliot had done real damage to her, and she agonized over the thought of how she would deal with it.

A couple times before, one as consequence of a fall, the other from an unexpected security system that had blown a safe door over her, Selina had dealt immediately and swiftly with similar situations. She considered herself someone blessed with exceptional serenity in adverse situations, especially those that involved pain. On both occasions she had managed to maneuver her own arm back to place all by herself, but she wondered if it was possible to do the same now. Perhaps it was just because of _how_ things had happened, but she seemed to be in so much pain… or _more_ pain than she was used to deal with, and that was saying a lot.

She took a pillow from her bed and placed it lightly under her loose arm, something that at least helped keep it mildly stable. Then, she collected a towel and a soft leather belt, moaning and sometimes even howling as she moved around her closet and went down the stairs. She then sat on the last step, and took a few moments to regain her coolness, if that was even possible.

Selina remembered her childhood days, those dark months when she was at St. Mary's and how often she was beaten. Once, she recalled, a monitor called Irene had beaten her merciless because she was caught stealing bread at the kitchen. Old, stiff pieces of bread that were about to go to the garbage – it was enough to make the woman grab her by the hair and drag her around the patio, then slapping her in public, so all the girls would see what happened to those that stole… That wasn't the worst part, though. The worst had been when the monitor was done with the slapping: she pushed Selina down on the stone ground, and stepped on the girl's hand.

The image came to Selina's mind: now, just like then, she had felt incredible pain and the sour taste of humiliation. She had looked at her hand and saw two fingers that were bent in strange, unnatural directions, and Selina remembered how the shock had kept her from screaming. She also remembered the woman then forced her to stand and pushed her down the corridors to a dark room that was called "punishing room", and left her there. _"To think"_, the woman had said.

And now, seating on the steps of her fancy house, Selina realized she felt much like the scared little girl that wept in the solitude of a dark room.

That little girl had guts, though; Selina also remembered she had been able to settle her own fingers, weeping and cursing while doing it. In the morning, when she was finally taken to the infirmary, the nurse merely immobilized the hand, saying she was going to be alright. And she did; she turned out fine, to everybody's surprise…

She took a few deep breaths, and did her best to let go of the pain. Slowly she moved from the stairs to the living room, then lying down on the cool floor and taking a few more deep breaths. From her time as a street rat in Gotham's alleys to the cat-burglar that lived between Monaco and Ibiza much had changed, but not this: she was used to take care of herself, and this time was no different. Something had to be done, and she was the one to do it. Wasn't her mother's favorite advice _"count on no one, Selina"_?

Feeling less tense, she grabbed the belt she had taken in her closet and wrapped it around both her wrists, tying them together. She bit the loose end and pulled it tight, making sure it wouldn't unfasten unless she want it to. She let go of the belt and took the towel, carefully placing it in her mouth, between her teeth. Then, she carefully flexed her leg, approaching her knee to her face and placing her clasped hands around it. _"That's it",_ she told herself. _"Just do it and be over with it!"_

She slowly moved her knee up and back, stretching her arms and, at the same time, trying to rotate her shoulder. The pain went up several degrees, and she clenched her teeth with such strength, towel in her mouth and all, that her jaw hurt. Her whole body trembled, she felt cold sweat on her forehead, her stomach turning and complaining…

And then, a click.

She felt it, undeniably, the "pop" of her arm getting back into place. To her relief, there was a great decrease of pain, and she was capable of moving her arm once again. No numbness, no apparent greater damage to her shoulder. She untied the belt and sat, throwing the towel on the floor – on it, spots of blood showing she had, despite her carefulness, bit her tongue. Nevertheless she tested her arm: there were some movements that still hurt, and it was somewhat stiff, but it was reasonably functional.

If that was a different situation, a different world she lived in, Selina would have wrapped her arm in a sling and rested, maybe even gone to a doctor… but no. That wasn't an option right now. Right now, there was Thomas Elliot to take care of. And that, of course, couldn't wait.

* * *

**Sunday, 2:33 A.M.**

**Now**

"What are you doing here," Thomas Elliot asked, clearly displeased, "_Talia_?"

There was a laugh, and then her musical voice answering:

"I hoped for a warmer welcome", Talia said, arms crossed and a bloodied scalpel in her left hand. "Is that how you receive your friends, Dr. Elliot?"

"I have no friends", he coldly declared. Then, he glanced briefly at the girl on the operation table: still strapped, eyes blankly staring at the ceiling, her neck cut open side to side, blood still dripping languidly from the wound and increasing the dark red pool on the floor.

"Of course you do, my dear doctor… one, at least."

"If you mean Bruce…" His tone was now harsh and impatient, Tommy making no effort to hide his fury.

"I mean myself, Dr. Elliot", she smiled and used the scalpel to point at the dead girl. "Even if you don't see it."

He roared:

"How _dare_ you…?"

"Now, don't lose your temper, my friend. This girl is collateral damage, I'm sure you agree."

He did not answer; his somber features denounced his disagreement, though.

"I'm here to help you, Elliot." She waved towards the dead body in despise. "_This_ here has to go, and as soon as you could dispose of it the better."

"How the _hell_ did you get in…?"

"How is not important; all that matters is that I did, and why I did it. And I did it to warn you, doctor."

"Warn me?" He was intrigued now, finally beginning to actually hear what Talia said, instead of think of painful ways to kill her.

"They are coming, _Tommy_… isn't that how you prefer your friends to call you?"

"They?" His eyes sparkled, his face regaining color again. "Bruce? _Batman…_?"

"Yes. And the thief also; she was the one that attracted the Batman here." She gazed at Tommy, nodding towards his wounded leg. "She was the one that did this to you, I assume."

"She'll pay for it."

"No doubt", Talia agreed, "though you might not have the chance of delivering her punishment yourself."

He frowned. "Why wouldn't I?"

Talia merely smiled:

"Isn't it obvious? Because she might die tonight."

* * *

**Sunday, 2:31 A.M.**

**Then**

Selina reached the edge of the building and looked down, trying to guess the distance to the ground. Twenty, twenty five feet, maybe? Those were small buildings, restored structures in Old Town. She was now on the corner of the last street of the borough, and if she crossed it, she would be entering the region known as Park River, one of the richest parts of Gotham. Mansion after mansion, each one occupying almost an entire block, all of them facing Robinson Park, most of them with their yards ending on the river banks. And there, in one of those fancy, spectacular houses, lived Thomas Elliot. That bastard, son of a bitch, soon-to-be-dead _doctor_ Thomas Elliot.

She had been there before and knew perfectly well where his house was. She even remembered details about it pretty well: the garden, the windows, the deck, the main stairs. From all she knew, Selina could assume it wouldn't be hard to get in. She was more worried about getting there, foreseeing difficulty to cross all those large properties without being seen. The houses were too far apart, and wouldn't be possible to proceed by hoping from one roof to another; walking on the ground, however, was even more troublesome. Most of those places had private security, dogs, cameras. It would certainly be a pain to deal with that.

But what was done, was done. Her decision had been made, and she was going to get Elliot, no matter what. Batman himself wouldn't be able to change her mind: if he thought that saving the life of a psycho like Elliot was worth it, well, then they really had irreconcilable differences and would never be able to work together…

"Well, well…" She heard someone speak behind her, not even ten feet away. _Not Batman_, was her first thought. That voice was sultry and insidious, its sound setting an alarm inside Selina. "What do we have here…? A stray cat, looking for something to steal…"

Jumping on her feet, completely alert now, she turned to look at the stranger on her back. A large, massive man, dressed like a guerrilla soldier: army boots, dark camouflage pants, a Kevlar reinforced vest. All black but this: he wore a mask, almost like a helmet, that covered his head completely; it was half orange and half black, a disturbing contrast with the rest of his body. In a quick exam, she counted at least four pistols, two strapped on both his legs and the other two, larger guns, on each side of his belt. Those didn't worry her, though; pistols, revolvers, she was an expert in dealing with people armed like that. Her biggest concern was, actually, the large sword in his hands.

A man with a sword was strange enough; not the usual sight one would expect in Gotham's skyline. But if that man wore a mask, and had been able to approach her quietly and swiftly, than she knew trouble would follow. Because, in fact, she knew who that man was.

"Slade Wilson, right?" His mask was inscrutable, and he remained still. "You're the one they call… _Deathstroke,_ isn't it?"

A sinister chuckle was audible, muffled and brief.

"Hm… I guess there's more to you than meets the eye, kitty cat…" His voice was harsh, not playful: deeply threatening. "Have we met before?"

"You would remember", she commented, taking a few steps back and placing herself on the balustrade of the building. "My knowledge is of your reputation only."

And what a reputation he had, Selina thought to herself. The first time she heard of his alias, "Deathstroke", she was a young girl starting a life as professional thief. South Africa. She was in Cape Town for a job and coincidentally, so was Slade Wilson. Only his job was murdering a powerful politician, something he had accomplished without difficulty despite the private and government security that were placed around that man.

That was Deathstroke: in the underworld, he was known as the man you call when you need something impossible to be done. He was also the guy that, according to all the advices she had received, you should run from if you ever cross his way. _But_, she recalled what one of her fences had once told her, _if this guy is there to kill you, you might as well shot yourself in the mouth._

Oh, those of little faith…

"How do they call you again…? Oh, yeah…" He shifted the weight of his body from one leg to other, balancing himself. "_Catwoman_, isn't that how the stupid papers named you?"

She knew what that meant, his slight movements, the way he tilted his head and gently, but firmly, grasped the handle of his sword. He was ready to strike.

"I don't know", she said. "Why? Are you looking for a sidekick? I'm a little too old for that."

Again he chuckled. "You're amusing", he noted. "Not enough for me to keep this conversation, though."

He moved his sword arm up, but that wasn't his attack, Selina knew. She was no fool, and had foreseen that, given her position on the balustrade, he would try to unbalance her and perhaps make her fall; besides, she was on very similar situation the first time Batman had attacked her, and she was not one to fall on the same trick twice. That was why she was perfectly ready for the darts, six of them, shot from a hidden weapon either in his left glove or arm.

She jumped and dodged them, falling lightly back on the roof, and making a run to the left. She couldn't risk jumping off the roof and landing on the ground, not yet. There was no safe jump, not from her position, and Deathstroke knew that, of course. That was why he had cornered her there, knowing that a fall would be fatal or close to that, even for an acrobat like her. But Selina was also a good strategist and, as always, had foreseen an escape route. There was an adjacent building that had a fire escape, and it was also close enough to a smaller edifice, a school. And a school was a perfect place to hide, somewhere full of rooms and corners, where someone quick and agile like her could very well outrun a heavy, large guy like…

Suddenly, pain.

A sting, at first; she felt it on her right knee as she raised it while running. But no, it was no sting – it was a _sharp_ pain. On her leg, her arm, her chest, her throat. Now she saw: wires. Translucent, thin, almost invisible elastic strings that had been placed on her escape route, much like a web. A _trap_. He had set her a trap.

The wires were virtually impossible to notice as they were: stretched, tense, entangled in each other and, apparently, crossing an entire side of the roof, held together between a lightning rod and a satellite dish. They were no ordinary wires, though; as she was brutally stopped by them, hitting the artificial web full body and running, she realized the strings had loosen as they were touched. Like an elastic band that was stretched to its limit, the cables retracted, and tangled around Selina in a mess of strings that dropped her on that very place.

She fought them, only to realize they were resistant and wouldn't break easily or be cut by the sharp nails in her gloves.

"Don't bother", Deathstroke told her. He had barely moved when she tried to escape, well aware that she had nowhere to go. Now he approached her without urgency, seeming perfectly sure of what to do. "Those are pretty special cables, Cat-girl, and you'll only hurt yourself more if you move too much… they are sharp."

He was right, as she had already noticed. Where she had first bumped into the wires her clothes had been torn, cut through her skin: leg, chest, arm, neck, nose.

"You see, I _always_ do my homework. I know you're a crazy bitch, but a fast, smart one." Now he was just a couple feet from her, and he placed one knee on the floor. Without effort he buried three inches of the tip of his sword on the concrete, supporting one of his arms on its guard. With his other hand he drew a large knife from his boot, the silver blade shinning under the moonlight. "I had a few things prepared for you; unfortunately, you fell right into one of my simplest traps. To be honest, I expected more from the 'Catwoman'."

He didn't hesitate when he reached for her, immediately taking hold of her wounded shoulder. He squeezed it ruthlessly, making Selina scream and wince under his touch, her sight blackening for a few moments, her conscience sleeping away.

"I bet this shoulder of yours is hurting like hell, hm? Yeah, I saw what he did, that fucked up doctor… and I saw what you did to him. Good for you." Even as he spoke Deathstroke didn't stop; he tied Selina's hands and ankles together on her back, using the very wires that trapped her. He did it quickly, so fast that she barely saw it happening. "People like him… they make me sick."

The irony of his statement didn't escape Selina, but she kept quiet. Her mind raced, her heart pounding violently in her chest. She refused to believe that there was no way out, that she had been caught and beaten in her own game. That wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

Deathstroke grabbed her neck with one of his hands, forcing his face close to his. A mask, nothing but a mask, a flat and flawless surface that showed nothing. "I wish we could have met in different circumstances, Catwoman. Maybe if you weren't so worried about the Batman, or about that mother fucking doctor, you could have put up a good fight. I guess we'll never know, right?"

She didn't flinch or even blinked. If that was the end, then she would face it with dignity – and rage:

"Go fuck yourself, you goddamned bastard...!" She spit blood on his mask.

Deathstroke simply tightened his grasp around her neck, and Selina struggled for air. He allowed himself a brief laugh:

"Thank you, you little whore… You just made my job that much easier. I was going to kill you and _then_ gut you, but I guess it works better the other way around…"

She closed her eyes and, to her own surprise, muttered a prayer.

That's why she missed his entrance, of course.

* * *

**Sunday, 2:35 A.M.**

**Now**

He had no idea who the man that had a knife ready to stab Catwoman was, but he knew perfectly well what he had to do.

To free Catwoman was his priority, and he calculated his actions considering her safety – she was tied and unable to protect herself. Reaching for his belt he took three bat-shaped _shurikens_ and, even as he ran towards the man, Batman threw them at him.

He had aimed for his arm, the left one, and they all hit the target: two of them buried deeply in his forearm, while the third merely scratched him above the elbow and rebounded to the floor. The _shurikens _were soaked in tranquilizer, which was supposed to make the person affected dizzy and slow his reflexes. He hoped that the hit would be painful enough to make the man let go of Catwoman and, in seconds, that the man would feel his arm go numb; to Batman's surprise, though, he barely flinched when was hit. What he did, however, was immediately place Selina under the threat of his blade, knife on Catwoman's throat, and use her as a protective shield.

"Ah", said the man, at once revealing both his strange mask and hoarse, low voice, "we were waiting for you."

Batman didn't respond to that provocation. He was now less than ten feet from the man and Selina, and had to consider his actions carefully. All he did was assuming a defensive position, slightly bending his knees and concealing his hands under his cape, which was loosely draped around him.

"You see", proceeded the man, "I was supposed to kill you both and collect my money, but I just can't resist."

To Batman's shock, the man suddenly dropped Catwoman and opened his arms, in a gesture that was both bold and arrogant. "What the hell; it's not every day you get the chance of facing the Batman. How about this: the girl can stay and watch while I kick your ass and make you eat your own eyes?" He chuckled. "Or maybe you can eat hers... I don't know. Haven't decided yet."

_He's a talker_, Batman considered. _Great. Talkers get distracted by their own words._ He didn't wait for the man to end his verbal analysis of his torture methods: he was no longer threatening Catwoman – there was no reason for Batman to restrain himself.

His attack was swift and he didn't hold back in anything, since Batman had already concluded that the man, whoever he was, was both skilled and resourceful. This was no amateur or adventurer: this was a trained professional, who had a very specific goal and many ways of hurting, even killing people. He had to be stop, and had to be stopped _now_.

He threw two batarangs at once, aimed for his head and crotch. Then he jumped forward, going for a high-kick that, he hoped, would hit his target straight on the stomach.

Things did not go as smoothly, though: in an impressive show of his reflexes, the man dodged the batarang that went for his head bending back and, at the same time, deflected the other one using the metal guards of his glove. Batman's kick came close enough, but missed him as he evaded contact by spinning to his left and rolling backwards, a movement that ended with him retrieving his sword and striking forward.

Batman registered that somewhere in the back of his mind, now realizing this man was not just remarkably well trained and talented: his speed and prowess were something he had never faced or even seen before. He guarded himself from the sword using both his gloves' metal bracers, feeling his entire body shake from the incredible impact of it. Already he felt his forearms burn, and he wondered if a similar defense could be used again.

He locked the sword's blade in the metal scallops of his bracers, and pulled the man towards him, something he apparently wasn't expecting; that allowed Batman to hit him as hard as he could with a knee strike on his left elbow.

The strength used would be enough to break one's arm, but the man merely groaned, and the only effect of the blow was a brief lack of firmness in his sword hand; that was _something_, at least, and Batman used the opportunity to pull the weapon from the man's grasp.

"_Now_ we're even", he said, not resisting the sardonic commentary.

He heard the man's throaty chuckle once again. "You wish, boy…"

Before he could end the phrase Batman was already on him again, attacking him with a combination of punches and kicks, most of them directed at the man's kidney and legs. They weren't very successful though, most of them easily blocked. Batman was able to grab the man's arm, however, and almost succeeded in an immobilization; the strength and resistance of the man was remarkable, though, and he was able to not only escape him, but also managed to hit Batman on the jaw with his head, a blow that just about dropped him and caused Bruce to almost choke in his own blood, that flow freely from his nose and mouth.

That man was unnaturally fast and strong, not to mention the fact that the tranquilizer in the _shurikens_ didn't seem to have had any effect. Whoever that guy was, Batman admitted, he was no ordinary human being, and couldn't be defeated simply by strength. He needed to improve his game, Batman concluded, and that couldn't be done there, in an open roof without a place to hide or resources to use. He had to try and move the fight somewhere else if he wanted to improve his odds – but he couldn't just leave Selina there, struggling with those ropes.

So, when the man drew two of his pistols, Batman was on the move again, ducking and running to Catwoman, and dropping two of his smoke bombs on the way. Vision on the roof was compromised in seconds, enough time for him to kneel close to her and whisper:

"If you want to live, you've got to trust me now."

And he hope that, unlike she had done hours before, Selina could see the truth in his words.


	9. Deathstroke, Part II

Despite the smoke that clouded his vision, Deathstroke was able to discern the silhouette of both Batman and Catwoman as they jumped off the roof and hid in the shadows of the alleys bellow. He had no clear shot: things were getting messier than he first intended, and all he didn't need was to attract attention of the cops and make a bigger show of this job. _Damn you to hell…_, he cursed. He had a way of doing his work, and he hated when things did not go his way.

Because, well, things _always_ worked out for him. He made sure of that. His jobs were clean, he never left a trail, he often came out unscratched and unmarked. He was a _hunter_, the best there was, and he never, _never_ missed a prey.

But the woman… the woman was demanding. Very demanding. She paid him well, so very well, and she thought that gave her the right to tell him _how_ he should do his job – and he hated that.

He did not hate, however, the fact that he had the Batman to take care of: that, he liked. He had secretly wished, _hoped_ that someday he would get the chance of being paid to come to Gotham and face the Dark Knight himself. It was bound to happen, Deathstroke believed; one doesn't fight crime in one of the filthiest cities in the world and doesn't attract the _wrong_ kind of attention. Disrupting things, getting in the way of that many powerful and bad people… bringing down guys like Falcone. That puts a price on one's head, no doubt. A _high_ price. Rumors in the underworld told stories about the clown, the one that called himself Joker, who had been hired by the mobsters last year to get rid of the Bat. Rumors also told that things had gone south in that matter – dumb mobsters. They were so eager to take care of things that had turned to a crazy mother fucker to do a professional's job.

Not _her_; she was a smart one, the woman. Said she wanted the Bat because it was a matter of _honor_. Had to do with her family. _Whatever_, Deathstroke thought then. He was going to be paid and he would have the chance of seeing what that Batman was all about: it was a win-win situation.

Until that night.

He was getting sick of that shit. He could have gotten rid of both Batman and Catwoman the night before, but the woman said no. _No_, she said, _Batman can't die just yet; he has to suffer first_. Yeah, sure; Deathstroke thought he knew plenty about making one suffer, about making people beg for death like it was a million bucks. But _no_: it had to be the woman's way. _She_ was going to tell _how_, and she was going to tell _when_. _'Count me out, then'_, he had told her. He was not one to play games: he was a _professional_. He cared about the money, and he had a reputation to keep. He had no time for this nonsense.

But the woman… ah, she knew pretty well how to conduct her business.

So, yeah, he was angry. He was pissed, and he wanted to hurt someone.

He too knew how to conduct business, though; Batman and Catwoman were about to learn that.

* * *

Trusting was something Selina was never good at – she had no problem admitting it.

Considering the situation, however, she was not so sure if following Batman and doing as told would qualify as trust… more like a lack of options, actually.

Her position wasn't very favorable: while Batman and Deathstroke exchanged less than friendly words and strikes, she struggled to free herself from those unpleasant cables, lacerating her wrists and ankles and almost passing out from the pain on her shoulder. That son of a bitch Deathstroke had crushed her already wounded joints and muscles, and now she was seriously inclined to believe her collarbone was fractured; well, at least it hurt like it was… and that was all that mattered.

So, long story short: Batman? She _needed_ him. That wasn't debatable and, truth to be told, she just _hated_ that.

She swallowed her pride, though, and accepted in silence when he cut the wires around her ankles and led her to the south side of the building. He used his cable in silence, both still surrounded by the smoke he had managed to produce with one of his toys, and placed an arm around her. She was in pain, she couldn't see, she tried desperately to not make a sound, she worried about the deadly mercenary on the roof and about the fall they were about to take… but, for a moment, all that was gone. There he was, Batman, so close to her… and the familiarity of the situation. No fear, no urgency – was he really _that_ sure of himself? Was he so confident that they would live to see the day?

He pulled her close, and placed her tied arms around his neck. She groaned slightly, the discomfort on her shoulder burning painfully. He whispered, even while pushing the both of them over the roof and swinging to the ground: _sorry_, he said, almost inaudible, the word spoken close to her ear, muffled by the fabric of her cowl. Not in that hoarse, unnatural voice of his: it was a regular, _human_ sound; something that was almost… recognizable?

Her heart raced: was it from the abrupt landing? From her throbbing wounds?

Or was it the fact that his whisper, his voice, was familiar to her ears?

As he cut the rest of the cables around her wrists, she silently watched. His skillful, quick hands; the quietness of his moves; the blood that dripped insistently from his nose and lips, but that didn't seem to bother him. It was dark, so hard to discern his features; but there it was: his chiseled jawbone, his unexpectedly well shaped mouth. It crossed her mind in a flash, the idea that he was someone from money and pedigree, someone that had chosen, _really chosen_ that life. Not like her – not someone without options and that had some talent, but an individual that had worked _hard_ to be who he was. To be that very person right there, that bleeds and plays his odds with death regularly, all to do what he believed was the right thing.

He interrupted her line of thought without ceremony, but with urgency. "Let's go", he urged, turning to the shadows and moving fast. She didn't ask him to wait, though perhaps she should: her body ached all over, and she was having difficulty to keep up. Besides, she wanted to know what he was thinking, she wanted to ask him if he had a plan, or something, _something _in his mind. Deathstroke was no amateur, no regular thug, no ordinary man… and he was coming for them. He was, and he wouldn't give up.

Batman didn't even look back. All that gentle disposition of his? Gone in seconds. His silhouette hardly discernable as he sneaked close to the walls, never making a sound. Oh, that was something that was so fascinating, it would almost freak her out… he was so big and heavy, so _massive_, how the hell could he be so silent? She used to brag about her own abilities, how she could go undetected even in the most challenging of the situations – he made her look like an elephant in a porcelain shop. If she wasn't _right_ behind him…

They walked two blocks through the alleys before he suddenly stopped, eyes ahead as he studied their surrounds. Selina could easily recognize the place: Robinson Park, perfectly visible across Park Avenue.

"We are not going to… ", she started.

"We are", he cut her sentence abruptly. "It's our only chance."

She got as close to his back as she could, looking over his shoulder to that famous landmark of Gotham. Like any kid that had lived in the city's streets, she knew Robinson Park very well – and _hated_ the place. It had been the scenario of too many bad moments for her, and she had no plans of ever returning to that place.

"Why?", she asked through her teeth.

"I know the place", he stated. "Better than _he_ does, anyway."

"No better than _I _do…", she mumbled.

"What's that?" He inquired without glancing at her, already focused in the task of retrieving things from his belt pockets.

"I _said_, 'ok, you're the boss'."

"I'm not the boss", he answered plainly. "Do you have any other suggestions?"

He had taken three round objects into his hands, and for a moment Selina thought they were smoke bombs also; when she saw that he activated them with a fifteen seconds timer, and then rolled at different directions, she concluded that it was better to ask:

"What are those?"

He didn't answer. What he did was take her hand in his and gently pull her to stand next to him. "Be ready", he warned.

There was a flash – three, actually -, and all went dark. All the street lamps, all the windows, even an occasional headlight; everything in at least a hundred feet radius simultaneously turned off.

"C'mon", he moved forward and guided her in the darkness.

* * *

As they reached Robinson Park, all Batman could think about was that he hoped Gotham City's morose public system had worked in its usual sluggishness – their lives likely depended on it.

Three months ago he had been at that very place, visiting what had once been Gotham's Botanical Garden. The place had been virtually abandoned ten years ago; there were no longer contributors and sponsors to maintain it, and the local government claimed there were no funds to keep it. Bruce Wayne's visit had been with the purpose of discussing a plan of action to restore the Botanical Garden, courtesy of Wayne Enterprises money. Money had been given, a course of actions was designed… but Gotham had its own rhythm in those things, and he didn't expect to see any work done for a few more weeks.

Or, again, so he _hoped_.

He led the way to the old greenhouse, a gigantic structure that, in better days, used to house hundreds of different plants. He remembered it from his childhood: his mother had been one of the people that had financially contributed to the construction of the place, and she had also been part of the council that had decided what kind of green life they should acquire and cultivate in the Garden. It was by no coincidence that the greenhouse had been baptized with her name.

"What are we doing here?" He heard Catwoman ask when the greenhouse was finally at sight.

He didn't answer. There was no time to talk, not right now. All he did was use his grappling hook on the top of the large structure, again seizing her waist and pulling her close. This time, however, she didn't peacefully comply.

"Hey", she whispered, her voice not low enough to mask her exasperation. "What the hell do you think you're doing? I'm going _nowhere_ with you before you tell me what you're planning to do!"

Just as she spoke these words, she also pushed him away from her, something he fiercely resisted by grabbing her belt. "Let _go_", she hissed, burying her sharp claws on his forearm. He ignored it, though, both the pain and the rage in that gesture, and forced his body forward against hers, her forehead brushing on his chin as she struggled to free herself from him.

"_Trust me_", he insisted once again. "I need you to trust me right now…" He hesitated for a second, and then: "Please, _Selina_."

He felt her suddenly halting her resistance in his arms, and he activated the cable right then, the abrupt pull taking his attention off of her for the moment. They reached the delicate ceiling of the greenhouse by clumsily bumping on one of the glass plaques, that immediately shattered on contact. They managed to keep balance by grabbing the metal structure, both of them precariously crouched and trying to find a safe place to stand.

Catwoman was better in that than he was – soon she was on her feet again, perfectly stable in just a narrow steel bar. He jumped to another beam next to her, and managed to stand in reasonable security.

She removed her goggles.

"Why are you doing this?" Selina spoke. Not Catwoman – _Selina_. She stared at him intensely, green eyes sparkling under the moonlight.

"Put your mask back", he coldly said.

"_No._" Her tone was adamant. "We are in serious trouble here, we might _die_…"

"We're not going to die." He took the goggles from her hands, then holding them close to her face. "Now. Put. Them. Back."

"No", she stubbornly insisted. "No. Not until you at least say it."

"Say what?"

A snort of disdain was her reaction. "Your name. Who you _are_." She reached for the goggles, but, in a swift gesture, grabbed his arm and slightly pushed him, forcing him to falter and hold on her for balance. "You see, I think I _know_ who you are…" She spoke softly. "Just say it to me. I need to hear it from you…"

It was just an unusual, slight reflex what he saw between the trees down on the ground; but it was enough to set an alarm inside him. "Get down!", he yelled at Catwoman, pulling her with him. Just in time: he heard the sound of a dozen bullets flying over them and shattering more glass around them.

"He saw us, didn't he?" She asked; he confirmed by nodding. They were now hanging from the ceiling like kids in monkey bars, a position he considered far too vulnerable. Under them, an indistinct mess of variable kinds of plants, allowed to grow wildly and neglected for a decade.

Also, a perfect place for sheltering them for now.

"Come with me." He said as he stretched a hand to her.

"You're not planning to _jump_ down there, are you?" He could read her hesitance, just as he could see she wouldn't be able to hang for much longer: she had clearly wounded her shoulder, though how bad it was he had no idea as of yet. Still, she now relied only in one arm to keep her from falling.

"It will be fine", he assured her. Gently swinging his body back and forth he approached her.

"My shoulder…", she begun, but he cut her off.

"I know." He was as close to her as possible without jumping over to the bar she was hanging from. "Just let go. I'll catch you."

She wasn't able to disguise her shock. "Are you insane?"

"I've heard that one before." He tried to encourage her. "C'mon, just…"

"If you ask me to trust you again, I swear to God, I'll scream."

She almost did that anyway, growling in pain as her arm reached its limit. Unwillingly or not, she loosed her grip on the metal beam.

Batman had already seen it – just as she fell, he plunged into nothingness right behind her.

* * *

It was true, Deathstroke thought, that no one could prosper in a life like his without some measure of luck. Still, he tried to never abuse his own good fortune.

That's why he decided, when he realized that Batman and Catwoman had taken shelter in the old greenhouse, that he would not enter that place.

He was no idiot – he was outnumbered, he knew nothing about the building, he knew even less about plants. And he also knew that Batman, the rat bastard, was also a cunning son of a bitch. Batman wouldn't have gone to that place if he didn't have a plan; and what better way to ambush someone than having the terrain advantage? For all Deathstroke knew, that greenhouse could be filled with poisonous plants and dark corners, and who knew what the Bat could have planted there? Those devices he had used… an electric pulse that had put off the lights of the entire block – that was damn smart and useful. Deathstroke would kill to have something like that.

Oh, well, he was going to _kill_ him anyway: why not take whatever gadgets Batman had when he finally accomplished his task?

Deathstroke pondered about his options, and getting inside the greenhouse wasn't one of them. The obvious conclusion: he had to force them to come out. And what better way to do it, he wondered, if not _smoking_ them out?

Because, yeah, Deathstroke didn't know greenhouses in general, but he knew this: a fire in a place like that? A very unpleasant situation for anyone inside.

He too had his own gadgets. Nothing too fancy, nothing like the Bat's little toys, but he had a few ways of making a beautiful fire. He was very proud of a specific grenade he had acquired in the black market, new tech that LuthorCorp had developed for the US Army: they called it the "perpetual fire" – as well they should. It was made to create vicious flames, that would burn and spread quickly and ferociously, a fire that would persist even if it had nothing besides air to fuel it. A beautiful thing to watch, and he hardly ever had the chance of using it…

He took all three grenades he had with him, and climbed to the top of the greenhouse, much like Catwoman and Batman had done before. It really was the best place to be if you wanted to have a clear view of your surroundings, and he certainly needed that.

Deathstroke took a moment to scan the entire building bellow and decide where he should throw his grenades. There was no sign of his adversaries below, but he didn't expect to see them: it was easy to hide down there, and he didn't need to kill them right now. All he needed was to make sure they wouldn't have many options when they tried to run away from the fire.

That's why he decided to drop the grenades where the fire would block the ground exits. That way they would have to go for the ceiling again, and although the Batman seemed to have an extraordinary collection of cables and grappling hooks, they wouldn't save him now. Not if Deathstroke was there, just waiting for them.

* * *

"Why our dates always have to end with something burning?", she asked out loud.

That didn't amuse him, and it was no surprise; few things would sound amusing, Catwoman admitted, when you are inside a concrete water tank, taking turns to breathe so you wouldn't suffocate. Still, she thought that was a smart line – too bad he had lost his sense of humor.

"Be quiet", he said, his voice a gruff, hollow sound in the darkness.

"Don't be rude", she snapped. "I might be the last female company you'll ever have."

"We are _not_ going to die."

"So you say." She struggled to bring air to her lungs. "Forgive my skepticism, but our situation is less than ideal…"

_Less than ideal… _She couldn't help but laugh at her own words. That was one very bad situation, if anything other than disastrous.

It started when they fell from the ceiling: surprisingly enough, Batman _had_ managed to catch her, and used his cape to assure a safe landing… to a certain point. They had hit a large portion of bushes – it would have been convenient, if not for the fact that the plants had disguised a large pile of useless construction material. They ended up falling too close to it, and Batman took most of the damage: one of his legs had been trapped among pieces of concrete and steel, resulting in several minor wounds and an ugly gash caused by his thigh being pierced by a sharp rebar piece.

Nevertheless, even if Batman was limping through most of the way, he led them to a place that Selina recognized: an artificial pond, no longer functional, abandoned for many years. Not much had been left; the tank had no more than a couple inches of dark, filthy water in it, and its walls were covered by mold and mud. In its deepest point the concrete pool wouldn't be over six feet, if that much. The thought of getting inside it, water or no water in it, haunted Selina for a few moments – Batman ended it in instants when he entered it without hesitating for even a second.

"Are you kidding me?" She asked, slightly insulted by he not even giving her the slightest hint of what he had in mind before acting on it.

He didn't answer: he was already crouched in the disgusting water, both hands fumbling on the mud like he was searching for something in the darkness.

She had no intention or desire to help him do whatever he was planning to, but her resistance faltered when the first explosion took place – it happened fairly close to where they stood, shards of glass showering them amongst the flashes of light and heat.

Another one followed it, and then another, seconds apart from each other. Catwoman had barely had the chance of understanding what was going on before noticing the fire. Flames. Flames and fire, their strange and vacillating light growing rapidly and engulfing the darkness.

"Here", it was Batman calling for her. He didn't look surprised or shocked; if anything, he seemed to be unruffled by the destruction of his surroundings. He was still inside the old pond, now standing and holding with both hands what looked very much like a manhole cover. Judging from his gesture, he seemed to be urging Selina to go _inside_ the manhole.

She was less than thrilled to comply, but the night had already taught her that they were in no position to debate or waste time. Running to him, she halted for a moment to take a look at the hole: water poured inside it, and it was wide enough to easily fit her. How deep it was, though, remained a mystery.

"Where does it…?"

He never allowed her to finish her question.

"When you hit the water", he shouted, "swim forward until you can feel the wall."

"Swim?"

"Go!"

She did; first climbing down by holding herself as best as she could on the edges of the manhole, and then finding the courage to let go. Trying to use her claws to slow down her fall, she only managed to break a couple of them and got reminded that one of her shoulders was hurt. Fortunately, the dark tunnel was short, but Catwoman's fall was broken by something unpleasant: the sudden and abrupt contact with chilly, reeking water.

The shock of temperature was unexpected, and her focus was drawn to nothing but that: her body freezing, paralyzed by cold and horror. It took her a few moments to regain control over herself and remember Batman's instructions. When she finally forced her arms and legs to move, she sensed his massive form diving in the water behind her.

The darkness down there was beyond anything she had ever experimented. It was complete blindness, an abandonment of her sight. She swam, her chest burning, her injured shoulder not hurting – but immobile, her arm not responding to her commands. _The wall_, she repeated to herself, _find the wall_.

But there was no wall. She reached ahead and felt the air escaping her, the black veil in front of her never lifting as she moved in despair.

And then, a light.

She went for it, unsure of what it was or if that was what she should do. Light, a pale, indistinct light, a small, fluttering hope. Her body slow and heavy, her eyelashes forcing themselves shut. Her fingers stretched away, so far away, almost touching it, almost reaching it, so close…

And she blacked out.

If seconds had passed, or more than that, she wouldn't be able to tell. Suddenly her throat burned, and she gasped for air and swallowed water – foul tasted, salty water.

"Are you okay?" She heard the concern in his voice.

He held her now, and they were in what seemed to be a large tank. Perhaps a reservoir. She gently moved her legs, trying to reach the ground below, but without success; whatever that was, it was deep and filled almost to its maximum capacity of water. Unlike the bottom of the tank, its top was very close to her, her forehead almost touching it when she managed to move.

"Catwoman", he insisted, "do you hear me?"

She felt the support of his arms under her, his left hand below her chin to keep it above the water line. _I must have passed out_, she realized. And again he had saved her – that was getting old pretty quick, she thought, annoyed at the idea.

"I'm fine", she mumbled. Turning to look at him, she noticed with relief they were not in complete darkness… and once more she had him to thank for it. Glued to the ceiling were a pair of small LED lanterns, shedding light around them and allowing Catwoman to see how ugly and filthy the place they were was.

"Where are we?" She had managed to keep herself from sinking by using her legs and just one of her arms, but Batman had not let go of her completely: he strapped her belt with something; she couldn't really see what, but it felt like a cable connecting them both.

"An old reservoir for pluvial water. They used the water in it to irrigate the Garden when it was functional."

"And now…"

"Deactivated." He stared at her for a few moments, studying her attentively. "We shouldn't speak. Not much air left."

She ignored that:

"Do you have any idea how to get out of here?"

He merely nodded.

"Elaborate", she demanded, clearly exasperated.

"The fire must be reaching its peak. I'm waiting for the smoke to get thicker."

"Right", she agreed. And then:

"Why our dates always have to end with something burning?"

* * *

The escape from the water reservoir could be described as a smooth one, in Batman's opinion. Selina was less than thrilled with the fact that she would have to dive into cold water and swim again, but he assured her he knew where he was going. And he _did_ know… theoretically.

As Bruce Wayne, one of the investors for the restoration of the Botanical Garden, he had had the chance of studying the blueprints of every building and construction of the place, including its irrigation and water storage system. That's why he knew about the several tanks and cisterns, and the many passages connecting them.

From what he could remember, there was a tunnel from the tank they now were to the main gallery, which was north from there and had an exit to the surface that was conveniently camouflaged. If they could reach it, not only they would escape the massive destruction of the fire above them, but they would be in an excellent position to do what he had been planning all along: ambush the man that was trying to kill them.

He hoped he was right about the exit.

Now at least he had had the presence of mind of attaching one of his belt cables to Selina's waist, in the hopes that it would help him guide her out of there without them having to go through another near-drowning situation. They been through a scary situation minutes before, with Selina blacking out while still in the water. Carry her up in the cold, dark water, his legs weighting tons and his arms trembling, nothing but his direction sense to orient them… he honestly thought he wouldn't make it.

But they did, and that was all that mattered.

"Follow me", he told Catwoman before plunging. He wished he could have reassured her in some way, but what was he to say? There weren't many guarantees there, none other than the fact that he trusted his memory and his plan. For some reason, he had a hunch she wouldn't find that enough.

She did follow him though, and he was glad to see she wasn't showing any signs of hypoxia or hypothermia, something he had feared just moments before. He swam down until he found the passage he was looking for, and was relieved to see it wasn't blocked or closed in any way. Pulling Selina and showing her the way, he allowed her to swim ahead of him, knowing the tunnel was not too long; as predicted, they reached another reservoir in seconds, quickly surfacing above the water and gasping for air.

This tank was much larger than the others, a large chamber that connected all the passages and cisterns. It could be called a maintenance room, Batman assumed, the place where you could access the entire system of pluvial water of the Botanical Garden. There was even a platform surrounding the walls, somewhere they finally could stand and take a moment to rest.

But time was something they didn't have. He allowed Selina to seat and take a few deep breaths while he stood up and approached the exit, testing the trapdoor above them.

"God, look at that…" She said while gazing at him, eyes on his wounded leg. "You're seriously bleeding."

He glanced at it briefly: the hole in his thigh poured blood intensely, a crimson trail that soaked his boot.

"I'm okay", he murmured. There was no time to do something about that, and even if there was, there wasn't much he _could_ do. He had bandages and an emergency first aid kit in the car, but nothing with him at the moment.

"It looks bad. You're gonna pass out if we don't do something…"

"I won't", he stubbornly answered. He wouldn't. He _couldn't_. There was too much to do.

"Shut up." She reached for her own belt and took it off, then putting it around his leg, directly on the wound. "Not exactly _sanitary_, but it will do for now. Besides, you've already played in this filthy water anyway. This can't make anything worst."

She pulled the belt tight around the leg, and the sharp pain caused him to let a low growl escape through his lips.

"Sorry…"

"It's fine", he immediately added. Looking down at his leg, he realized that the bleeding had reduced considerably. He thought of thanking her, but, instead, he opened the trapdoor over them.

If she expected something different, she didn't show. All she did was ask:

"What are you planning? Run to the park, avoid Deathstroke…?"

So Deathstroke was his name, he pondered. Appropriate.

"We are going to _get_ Deathstroke." As she reacted with surprise, he corrected. "At least I am."

"Are you crazy?"

"We've been through that."

"No. No, we haven't." She grabbed his arm harshly. "We are both pretty messed up; what the _hell_ are you thinking? That guy out there is no regular man…"

"I noticed." He turned to face her, trying to speak as calmly as possibly, though he felt the urgency of acting pressing up on him. "But if we don't do this now… we might never have another chance."

In a gesture that surprised even himself, he saw his hand reaching for her face, his gloved fingers gently caressing her pale, cold cheek. "That man is trying to _kill_ us. He won't stop. And every time he attacks, he gets closer to actually do it. We have to do this _now_. If we run, who knows where and how he's going to attack us again?"

She held his hand in hers, forcing his palm against the skin of her face. "I just don't see how this could end well", she whispered, her lips brushing softly on the skin exposed by a tear in his glove.

"We can do this."

"How…?"

"Together", he said. "The only way to do this is together."

* * *

When he quickly explained his plan to her, well, Catwoman concluded it was a risky one. Now, however, as she climbed a metal and glass structure that burned in flames, she thought it was more than risky… it was plain insane.

Though insane was a word that could define most of the night until now and, what the hell, a good portion of her life. So, maybe, the plan wasn't so far off after all.

Batman had explained: Deathstroke probably was waiting for them, far too smart to simply count them dead in the explosions. He had thrown those grenades in such a pattern that denounced his intentions – he didn't expect them to walk from the greenhouse. He had seen Batman's methods and gadgets, and would expect them to try an escape through the roof; and, no doubt, he would be waiting for them then.

They had managed to leave the greenhouse using the underground, however, and _that_ Deathstroke couldn't be expecting. Not yet, anyway; if given time, he would be able to deduce it, but, for now, he couldn't have a clear view of what happened inside the greenhouse or even his surroundings. The smoke his own fire had produced would be the cover Batman and Catwoman could use to surprise the mercenary, and advantage Batman was counting on.

"He will be searching for us inside the greenhouse", he stated. "We are going to come from outside."

Hence her dangerous and unpleasant climbing. Batman had explained to her that the fire they were dealing with wasn't an ordinary one; it had spread fast and would burn for a long time. The building wouldn't resist for much longer, and she was supposed to be very careful with her every move. Pretty quickly she saw he was right: the metal structure was already crumbling, the steel so hot that she couldn't touch it even through her gloves. Good thing that Batman had offered her one of his grappling hooks and cable – those things were really handy, no doubt about it.

She reached the top of the greenhouse, but remained carefully hidden, trying to make her presence unnoticed the best she could. It wasn't a hard task; the smoke that rose to the sky was so dark and thick that it was hard to see inches ahead. She insisted in look for Deathstroke, however, and found him where Batman said he would be: crouched on the pinnacle of the building, a pedestal that once had served as base for the statue of a swan. Now, the statue was gone, and Catwoman had no idea if Deathstroke had gotten rid of it or if someone had done that before him, perhaps years ago.

She watched him for a few moments: perfectly still, rifle in hands, attentively examining the ceiling. He was using a different mask, she noticed, that covered his entire face. It was too far for her to be sure, but it seemed to be similar to a gas mask; probably would help him deal with the smoke, and perhaps even help him see through it.

The idea was for her to wait for Batman's sign: he would try to hit Deathstroke with a few long distance attacks, and then she would be on the move. But, just as she thought, the mercenary was way better than even Batman could imagine.

Something caught his attention, Catwoman noticed, and he turned to point his rifle at the opposite edge of the building. It was impossible for her to see what he had seen, but she didn't need to: it was Batman, no doubt.

She heard the shots; one, two, three, four, a bullet every second. She ran, knowing Deathstroke was now turning his back on her. Under her, the metal bars squealed and complained, shaking at every contact with her boots. She had no time to worry about it: she had _seconds_, merely seconds to reach him and…

He turned to her and shot.

She was close to him, maybe twenty feet from the platform where he now stood. So close that the sound of the shot was only registered by her mind after she felt the bullet. Something burning and tearing at the skin of her left arm, the strength of that impact throwing her back and down.

Then it was the pain in her back, the pain as she fell hard and brutally against the fervent steel beam. She felt the impact all over her body, numbness on her hands, a shock that run through her spine and shared agony to every inch of her. A scream came, deep and furious, born in the most primal place in her – a roar caused not just by the pain, but from the frustration, from the failure, from believing that this was now the end.

"Goodbye, Catwoman", she heard his gruff, muffled voice, and felt his weight shake the steel below her.

"Not… just yet…", she managed to whisper back.

If he heard what she had said Catwoman would never know; what she knew was that Batman appeared from below, jumping on Deathstroke in a movement that was nimble and gracious like the one from an acrobat, both his feet landing right at Deathstroke's chest. The mercenary faltered, unable to hold his ground and stand still. He stepped back and slipped, having no choice but to hold onto the steel beam with both hands, hanging precariously from there.

Batman approached him, but before he could reach him Deathstroke maneuvered his own body in impressive skill and speed, holding upside down on the beam by hugging it with both legs. Reaching for his pistol, he still managed to fire a couple shots, barely giving time for Batman to lower himself and jump to an adjacent girder.

That was the chance Deathstroke needed: in seconds he was already balancing himself on the steel beam, flames dancing below him. He kept shooting, but the wind and the unstable position didn't work in his favor: Batman wasn't hit, and was able to approach the mercenary once again.

"Here we go", said Deathstroke, unsheathing his sword.

He attacked and Batman dodged, counterattacking by punching Deathstroke twice on his body. That made the man gasp and hunch, even if at the same time he went for a lower strike that forced Batman to jump over the blade and almost fall. The sword cut through air, then coming down straight at the girder, making it vibrate violently.

_He's not gonna make it_, Selina caught herself thinking, now finally regaining control over her body once more. She tried to stand, but her back hurt too much, her muscles were still unresponsive; all she could do for the moment was watch. Watch in anxious silence as Batman bent his knees and struggled to find steadiness in his narrow ground.

A sound like a powerful thunder roared close by, and the whole structure of the greenhouse trembled; Selina felt a wave of hot air engulf her, and she saw part of the ceiling collapse on her right. _Can't stay here_, she reasoned. Even if crawling, she had to move from there.

She looked ahead to see Deathstroke swinging his sword at Batman again, who on turn leaped backwards off of the beam he stood on and opened his arms abruptly, making his cape float around him. The wind was heavy and hot, thick smoke curling and climbing up to the night sky, engulfing Batman's dark silhouette and sustaining him mid-air for a moment… and he kicked, quickly spinning as he draped the cape over his body, the strength of the hit ripping off Deathstroke's mask and throwing him on the girder behind him completely unconscious.

Blacked out as he was, the mercenary had no way of avoiding falling on the flames bellow, something Catwoman realized without feeling pity or compassion for the man. Batman, however, didn't seem to agree. Landing on the precarious beam bellow him, he immediately reached for Deathstroke and grabbed one of his arms, holding himself crouched over the girder with just one hand and his own weight balancing Deathstroke's limp body.

"Fool!" Catwoman approached Batman. "What the hell 'you doing?"

He didn't answer: as unbelievable as it was to her, Batman was trying to lift Deathstroke over the beam.

"You're going to kill yourself, don't you see…?"

She was never able to finish the sentence. Her voice disappeared under the sudden sound of a shot.

Batman grunted – a low, muffled noise, uncharacteristically composed, given the circumstances. It took her a moment to accept it: he had been shot.

She looked down to see Deathstroke's face – it was strangely old and handsome, unlike she would have imagined for him. He smiled. He had a gun in his hand and, hanging over death and destruction, and he had shot his only chance of escaping. As Batman now blacked out and loosed the grip on Deathstroke's arm, Selina merely watched as he plunged into the flames. Oh, well, if he wanted to be the scorpion of that fable, she would give him that.

She turned her attention to Batman, grabbing him with both arms before he fell off. There he stood: kneeled and bleeding, unconscious, both of them unsteady in a building that was crumbling down. "Oh, no…", she mumbled, "no, no, no…"

Raising her hand to her face, she saw the thick, fresh blood soaking her glove.

She wasn't sure of _where_ he had been hit, but his armor's chest was drenched in blood. He still breathed, however, even though the sound of his breathing was rasping and seemed to demand a lot of effort from him.

"Don't do that… don't… don't…" She pulled him close to her, speaking right on his ear. "Please, don't… I don't know what to do…"

He moaned and coughed, shuddering in pain; his eyes fluttered open. "My… back…"

"Yes", she anxiously answered, gently turning his face to hers. "Yeah, I know… Look at me: listen, you… you were shot. And we need to take you somewhere… somewhere they can help you…"

"It hurts", he complained, trying to reach the wound with one of his hands – that only caused him to groan and then clench his teeth, his jaw tense as he frowned and struggled to keep himself from yelling.

"It's alright", she lied. Nothing was _alright_. "Look, I need you to try and help me… we…"

He didn't say anything, but he did try to move. He howled in agony and coughed, spitting blood every time he did it, but managed, with her help, to crawl a few feet, approaching the edge of the building. Under them, the metal begun to bend.

"I… I can't carry you down." She felt tears coming down her face; she told herself they were caused by all the smoke.

He showed her a small hook and steel cable, attached directly to his belt. She took the hook from his trembling hands and locked it around one of the less unstable bars. Once it was done, he allowed himself to fall from the edge.

Selina panicked for a second, but realized the cable had provided a slower, gentler descend. She watched as he reached the ground and collapsed, even though he remembered to lose the cable from his belt, allowing it to be pulled up by her. She repeated his actions, and in seconds she had landed on the ground next to him.

She quickly got closer to him, in time to notice he was mumbling something through his dry, scratched lips:

"Car… here…" He took her hand in unexpected strength, and placed a small device on her palm: it had a red light blinking intermittently, and numbers that decreased gradually.

"Your car…? Do you want me to find it…?"

He tried to speak again, but he instead threw up blood and clenched both hands over his chest, his low grunts a torturing sound for Selina. She grasped his face in her hands, trying to look straight at his eyes, eyes that he kept forcefully shut.

"Shhh… shhh…" Placing her head near his, their cheeks close together, her sweating face against his cold skin, she spoke softly. "I'm here… I'm here with you…"

That seemed to soothe him somehow, at least enough to make him stop writhing.

"It's gonna be okay", she said, caressing his pale, colorless face. Her fingers trailed red marks on his skin, so much blood that she found it surreal. Her own face was probably in similar state, her having tried to dry her tears with the back of her hand.

And then, the device he had given her beeped loudly; almost simultaneously, she noticed powerful headlights illuminating them. _Oh_, she privately commented, _the car_. How the hell that monster had gotten there was a mystery she wasn't going to agonize over at the moment.

"Hey", she called tenderly, "hey, do you think you could try to walk for me…? Just a few steps…"

He seemed tired, so tired, every single breathe a struggle, every instant filled with monumental pain. Even so, he moved; first rolling to his side, then, with her help, putting himself on his knees and fists. "Selina…", he roared, followed by a brief, though sorrowful shout that translated his suffering and frustration.

"I'm right here", she reassured, placing his arm around her shoulder and encouraging him to move forward. He was heavy, so heavy, and she too had more than a few wounds throbbing and burning, causing her pain. Right now, though, all seemed so insignificant – because she knew one or two things about bullet wounds, and his was the kind of wound that… that…

_No_! She wouldn't allow herself to think about that. Not that night. Not after all they had been through…

As they approached the car, the doors opened for them. She helped him climb inside, following him and watching with discomfort as the car locked itself back. "Okay", she said, "okay… we're going to take you to the hospital. Any hospital, the closer one…"

"_No_", he groaned severely. "No, no hos… no hospital...!"

"What are you talking about? We need, _you_ need…"

"Al… fred. Need… Alfred…"

"Who's Alfred?!"

He didn't answer; his head pending forward, he blacked out once again.


	10. Under the Cowl

"_I'm Alfred, miss."_

The voice came from somewhere in the car's dashboard: it was deep and pleasant, undeniably British. It showed, however, both apprehension and urgency.

"We're in the car…", Selina said, unsure of what to do, or if she was even supposed to be there. "Batman and I, we…"

"_Yes, miss. I understand."_ There was a pause, and when he proceeded, the graveness in his tone was almost palpable. _"Is he hurt, miss?" _

"He was shot."

She wanted to say more than that, perhaps give him more details, but she discovered she couldn't. Turning to look at Batman, passed out on the passenger's seat next to her, she realized how little she knew about him; that man speaking to her, however, seemed like someone that knew very well what he was talking about, and who he was dealing with. To begin with, he didn't seem surprised to be talking to her – a woman he had never met before, alone in the car with a badly wounded Batman.

"_Is he unconscious?"_ He proceeded; now there was a straightforward objectivity in his tone, like the talk had suddenly become a very professional conversation.

"Yeah", she answered. "Yeah, he just blacked out again…"

"_I need you to do something for me, miss."_ He warned, speaking softly and in clear, marked words. _"But first, I'll turn on the car and set its course; it will take just a moment…"_

"It's 'course'? What do you mean? Where…?"

"_For now, let's just avert the police."_

Cops; right, that was actually a good call, Selina admitted. The car accelerated all by itself, moving through the park in unbelievable speed. Meanwhile, Alfred spoke again:

"_Miss?"_

"Yeah, I'm here."

"_I need you to tell me about his wound, miss. Did you see how it happened? And what part of his body was hit?"_

"I saw." She leaned over Batman to study him closely. "He was shot… by no ordinary gun. It pierced his armor. I think it came through his back and out of his chest…"

She ran a hand over his thorax, easily finding a hole in his armor on the left side, just below his collarbone; it was about one inch of diameter. On his back, where there was considerably less blood, she identified a smaller hole; it was perhaps half an inch below his scapula, and dangerously close to his spine. As she probed the wound, however gently, she felt him flinch under her touch, letting escape a gruff growl from the back of his throat.

"I'm so sorry", she apologized, leaving the wound be and approaching his face. He coughed and took a deep breath, coughing even harder after; it seemed to be very painful to him, drawing air, but some color returned to his face as he did it. To Selina's horror, his breath was accompanied by an unpleasant hiss, and a mist of diminutive blood drops formed around his mouth and nose as he let air out.

"_Miss?"_ The voice from the radio called. _"Sir? Are you awake?"_

"Alfred…" His voice was almost inaudible, a hoarse and faint sound. He leaned over to get closer to the dashboard, supporting himself with his right arm. "The garage… come… need you to… come."

"_Sir...! If the description this lady gave of your wound is accurate, there isn't much I can do for you…! You need to get admitted to a hospital as soon as possible and undergo surge…"_

"No!" The effort to emphasize this negative caused him to cough once again, this time expelling a few dark clots of blood. "Not Batman… not as… Batman…"

"Oh, God", Selina moaned. "This is so bad… Please, Mr. Alfred, whoever you are, just take us to this garage or wherever he wants to go, okay?"

There was a second of silence before the man finally answered:

"_As you wish, sir."_ He was clearly discontent by the outcome of things, but there was something very dignifying in his obedience.

"Thank you… Al… fred…", mumbled Batman while leaning back on his seat, turning his torso to lay on his side.

If the man had disconnected his contact with them or not Selina wouldn't be able to tell; he said nothing else, though, and she presumed that was because he would have to drive or do whatever he needed to get to the place Batman had called the 'garage'. She also realized that the car now moved through Gotham's streets, its trajectory showing in a screen at the center of the dashboard, much like a GPS device. For the moment, she was glad there was no need to drive the thing anywhere - though she would probably have enjoyed that in different circumstances -, and she could just keep her attention on him.

He was conscious for the moment, she noticed, though he kept his eyes fiercely shut; probably a way of getting hold of the pain, Selina deduced, not allowing himself to panic or surrender to unconsciousness. She thought it was pretty remarkable that he hadn't fallen into shock yet, given the amount of blood loss and the extension of the injury, but truth was that he was a remarkable man - in every way imagined. Ever since she first heard about Batman, she knew that was no ordinary man; she knew he would be someone smart, resourceful, trained and stubborn – and she was right about all those things. What she never figured, never _imagined_, was how _good_ he was. He wasn't just skilled: he was a man of character. A good person.

And, to her own dismay, she admired that.

"Selina", he called her.

"I'm here."

"The bag…" He struggled to say, faintly gesturing towards the back of the vehicle. "Black… bag…"

"Got it", she quickly announced. It had been easy to spot it, something similar to a gym bag on the floor. Without waiting for him to ask, she opened it and searched through the contents.

She soon realized the bag contained medical equipment, though she wasn't particularly familiar with most of the instruments and drugs. Despite all her years doing what she did, she had very little experience with treating wounds; her goal had always been _inflicting_ wounds at others and avoiding them in her. That's why she had merely a general knowledge of a few emergency procedures, and definitely no idea if she could be able to help him in some way right now.

"I… I don't know what to… I don't know how…" She experienced a rare feeling of helplessness, something she didn't remember feeling since her childhood.

He seemed exhausted, covered in cold sweat, his lips turning blue, chin and hands trembling out of his control. Still, he managed to whisper:

"Red… tube."

It took her few seconds to find it: a red tube that was very similar to a spray can, though, instead of a valve, its tip was slender and long, covered by sealed plastic. It also had a button to press, she assumed, to release whatever was inside the can.

"Here", he showed his own chest, the bleeding wound below his shoulder.

Batman obviously wanted her to use the damn thing in his wound; it crossed her mind to ask what it was, and exactly how she should do it, but her sense of urgency was far more pressing – removing the plastic, she placed the lean, flexible end of the tube close to the wound, watching in awe as blood poured incessantly from the ugly wreck of bone and tissue that was visible through the armor.

"Deeper", he said through his clenched teeth.

"Oh", she merely said, unsure if she could do what he was asking of her.

She didn't have to be in doubt for too long, tough; he placed his right hand heavily over hers, and she wondered if he could even be able to dose his strength, considering his state. Nevertheless, his gestured buried the tube's tip in the injured flesh, a violent outcome that he took in surprising stoicism.

Selina pressed the button, feeling the object release some sort of thick fluid into the wound; _that_ he seemed to find pretty painful: he gasped and shuddered, kicking the dashboard with such violence that one of the screens cracked. She wondered if it was supposed to happen that way, if he was supposed to be in such pain, but again all was over quickly: the wound soon was filled with some sort of gel, sealing it completely.

"Interesting", she commented.

He only coughed in response, again expelling blood. As a small console, she realized that bleeding had reduced considerably, with that big wound in his shoulder closed for now.

A loud, quick beeping noise came from the onboard computer again. Selina turned to see the car driving directly into a large metal container by the riverbanks, recognizing they were in Gotham's infamous docks.

"Is this the 'garage' you referred to…?"

He was now quietly watching the car enter the container, breathing rapidly and loudly; his cape was draped around him, barely leaving anything to be seen but his pale, masked face. He allowed a brief, hoarse sound escape when the ground under them suddenly shook, then lowering itself as a giant elevator would.

An underground facility, Selina realized. Bright lights filled the car, coming from the large open space that was revealed to her. On the far wall, at least a dozen monitors and several keyboards, probably his computer – or several, actually -, she assumed. There were also two large chairs, and what seemed to be a set of shelves protected by glass door coming out of the wall on their right. Other than that, the room was strangely empty, and she wondered why they had come there.

The car's roof moved over them, again opening without the need of any command she had identified. Selina quickly left the car and went around the vehicle, planning to help Batman get out of there, but she heard someone speak behind her:

"Please, miss, don't move him. Not yet."

_Alfred_, she recognized. His voice was even more remarkable and pleasant in person. The man himself was also an interesting sight: he appeared to be in his sixties, though from the way he ran to them she could already presume he was a man that was in remarkable shape for his age, and probably looked younger than he actually was. He had some medical training, something she had figured from the conversation they had had by radio, and, most important: whoever he was, he was very familiar with Batman's life style and mission. There wasn't a hint of surprise in his composed features as he approached the car, coming from a similar elevator that was smaller and placed closer to the center of the room. He carried with him a pair of disposable gloves, that he put on even before reaching them. Getting closer, he nodded at Selina:

"Catwoman, I presume."

She shrugged:

"Calm me any way you like, Mr. Alfred. You were listening to us in the car, you know my name is Selina – if you didn't already, that is."

"Fair enough", he agreed. "Now, miss Selina… I'm going to need your assistance here…"

"Sure."

"Perhaps you could help me by lifting him from inside the car, and I will support him from…"

"No…"

It was Batman speaking; his voice barely audible, but his tone had the usual stubbornness in it.

"I can… walk."

"Of course you can, sir", Alfred agreed. "After all, you were just shot. I keep forgetting how uneventful that is for you."

Even as he helped Batman out of the car, he turned to Selina and asked:

"Would you be so kind to go to the farthest panel on the left and gently tap it on its right edge?"

"Okay", she said, already running to the large white panel. Doing as he had instructed, she was amazed to see that the result was the panel sliding to the side and reveling another room: a large medical bay. She didn't stay to admire it, though; returning to Batman and Alfred, she helped them reach the stainless steel gurney on the center of the room.

"Now, Master… excuse me, '_Batman'_." He briefly glanced at Selina, that commented nothing. "I must remove your body armor, sir - as I understand was your point in coming here, anyway."

He gently moved Batman's arms, placing them away from his torso. Without looking away from his patient, Alfred told Selina:

"If you want to assist me here, miss, I suggest you wash your hands and grab a pair of gloves and a sterile sheet on that closet over there."

"I…" She watched as Batman growled while the man began removing his armor – she was surprised to see that the whole thing was actually made of several pieces attached together, now deformed and painted in his owner's blood. "Okay. Okay, I'll do that."

She was by the sink and had her back to the gurney when Alfred finally took off the chest piece, unable to avoid a shocked whisper:

"Heavens…", he mumbled, using his forearm to push up his glasses over the bridge of his nose. "Sir… that's…"

He lowered his head to look at the wound closer, Batman panting and coughing as Alfred's gloved hands touched his ashen skin.

"I see you used the experimental gel, sir." He took a deep breath. "Let's hope it works as it should, then."

"_Experimental_ gel? He didn't say it was experimental, I had no idea…"

"Oh, you don't worry, miss Selina…" He was now putting on a stethoscope, then placing it on Batman's naked thorax. "The gel is a very effective way to seal a wound and help contain extensive bleeding… it's probably what saved his life for the moment."

"For the moment?"

Alfred remained silent as he listened to Batman's breathing sounds. Then, he answered her:

"There are other points to consider, I'm afraid." He looked down to gaze at the masked man he seemed to know so well. "Your lung is badly injured, sir… I believe part of it has already collapsed, and the rest will soon follow if we don't do something very quickly."

For a moment, Selina thought Batman hadn't listen Alfred's words. He struggled to breathe and kept his eyes shut, so immobile that she wondered if he hadn't passed out once again. However, after a few seconds, he opened his eyes and nodded affirmatively. Alfred returned the gesture by pursing his lips and, in subtle, almost imperceptible movement, holding briefly Batman's right hand and gently squeezing it, much like a father would do to encourage a child. Then, he turned to Selina:

"He needs chest tubes, my dear. I'll fetch the instruments; keep an eye on him for a minute, will you?"

She didn't answer, and Alfred didn't wait for her to do it. He went to the drawers behind the gurney, leaving Selina to stare at Batman's punished chest. The shot had been merely his most recent wound, it seemed: there were at least a dozen other scars scattered on his body. He was covered in sweat and his pale skin had several stains of dried or almost dried blood, in a scene that was worth of a battlefield. She raised a hand to his thorax, touching it lightly with her fingers, hoping that her soft, kind stroke could console him somehow.

"Selina…", she heard. He moved his lips, but no sound left his lips.

"What's that?" She placed an ear close to his face, listening to his voice that was now little more than a weak whisper.

"The… helmet…"

She drawn back her face quickly, again staring down at him, now with suspicious.

He said nothing, but lifted his right hand to his mask, forcing it back.

"Sir", it was Alfred, now closer to the gurney again, staring in shock at the gesture. "Sir, are you sure that now is the _best_ moment to…"

Selina acted fast: before Alfred could say anything else, she grabbed Batman's helmet with both hands and, in a swift movement, removed it from his head.

And then she saw it: his familiar, handsome face, the damp hair in a messy disorder, dry blood tainting his nostrils, his dark blue eyes watching her attentively…

Bruce Wayne.

It was Bruce under the cowl, all along.

And that didn't come as a surprise to her… Oh, not at all.


	11. A Bad Day

Leslie Thompkins was an early riser, and had always been – at least when she slept.

That Sunday, as usual, she woke up before the alarm in her cell phone buzzed. She opened her eyes lazily and rolled over her bed, wondering if it was six A.M. already – time when the bakery on the corner of her block opened, and where she could buy the bagel she indulged herself with before mass.

It was only 5:20, though.

She sighed and left her bed, going to the kitchen to prepare her coffee. She liked it black and very hot, an old habit she had picked from her night shifts at Gotham General, back in the day when she was a nurse. She remembered those long nights, surgery after surgery, and it seemed that hours just passed by her like a breeze. Oh, she would come home a wreck, no doubt, but boy, did she have fun…

There was no doubt she missed those days, but now less than she used to. When she lost her clinic, oh, that was bad… and soon she was also fired from Gotham General – they didn't want a nurse that would never deny treatment to people, even to a person that had no health care. Before, they had Thomas Wayne; he thought just like her, and he would perform surgeries even if the person didn't have a penny to pay for gauze. But Thomas was a doctor, a member of the hospital's board and a very, very rich man… he could afford to be disobedient. Leslie, on the other hand…

Memories. The past. She would more and more find herself thinking about it. The Wayne boy coming to the orphanage had certainly brought reminiscences to mind. He probably had no idea, but she was the nurse that helped him that night, that awful night, when Thomas and Martha were gunned to death… No, he wouldn't remember. He was just a boy, a scared little boy. Paramedics had brought him from the police department, a boy in shock, trembling and unable to speak a word. She took him to the exam room to wait for the doctor to come, and helped him change his clothes… he had Thomas's coat around him, she recalled. The very coat he had worn that morning, when he left the hospital after his shift.

She remembered what she had wondered then: could that boy ever live a normal life again? Would he be able to just keep going, doing what regular kids do? She found that hard to believe.

It seemed she was wrong, though. The boy – man, now – was fine. Perhaps he had fallen too much on the playboy's side of the spectrum, but still; he _was_ a rich heir, and it was not his fault that his parents had left him a generous trust fund for him to enjoy. And shouldn't he? Maybe in a few years, when he finally settled down, he could make a contribution to the world. If he found the right woman, oh, that would help. Selina Kyle was certainly a good choice; or even Talia Head. They seemed to have lots in common, Bruce and Talia. Both from families that had money, both had travelled the world and walked among influential people. It could work.

Leslie was lost in thoughts as she walked around her kitchen with a mug of hot coffee, drinking it slowly while going to the front door of her house. Sunday paper usually arrived before five, and she opened the door hoping to find it on the stone steps of her house. She looked down and didn't see it. What she saw, however, where the several crimson spots of blood spread over her mattress, and a shadow that approached from the left:

"Leslie", she heard a familiar voice, "I need your help."

* * *

"Ouch", Selina flinched as Leslie cleaned the wound in her arm.

"Okay, explain it again", Leslie asked. "You're Catwoman…"

"There isn't much explaining I can do besides that", Selina sighed.

Unfortunately, that was the truth. She had come to Leslie's house for good reason: she needed someone to help her with her injuries. Compared to Bruce – _Batman_, she had to always think of him as Batman -, she had been very lucky. But she had been shot, had had her shoulder dislocated, had almost drowned, had been through a _lot_. She was also very aware that there was no way she would be able to deal with those wounds alone, by herself, and she also wasn't willing to risk going to a hospital. Too many questions.

The unfair thing about all that, of course, was that she had to keep Leslie in the dark. She had already taken a very risky step by reveling to the former nurse she was Catwoman. Telling her about Bruce – _Batman_ – was something she would never do. It wasn't _her_ secret to share.

The whole ordeal with Deathstroke and also her unpleasant date with Tommy Elliot also weren't good conversation topics. _Especially_ about Elliot; who knew what that bastard was planning, and how far he was willing to go to keep pretending he was just another eccentric millionaire?

For Leslie's sake, she was better out living in ignorance. At least for now.

"You come to my door dressed like that, bleeding from ten different places, asking for my help… and you're not even going to tell me what happened to you?"

"Trust me, you don't wanna know… most boring story ever."

"Hm-hum. I'm sure it is…" She turned the small reading lamp she had placed over the kitchen's table to better illuminate the bullet wound in Selinas's arm. "Was it Batman?"

"Batman?! Like, the vigilante? Oh, no, no… nothing to do with him…"

"Oh, don't patronize me, dear… You want me to believe that something happened tonight that left you like _this_ and Batman was nowhere near the place?" She smirked. "Here in Gotham we have a _new_ saying: whenever there's trouble, there's Batman…"

"That's pretty unfair, don't you think?" Selina wasn't able to hold her tongue.

Again Leslie laughed. "Yes, I agree, dear."

There was silence for a moment, with Leslie attentively tending Selina's arm. "Almost done", she commented.

"Thanks… that's fantastic. I had no idea where to go, Leslie, you literally saved my life…"

"Yes, I understand you couldn't go to a hospital dressed like that." She pondered for a moment, finally saying: "By the way, do you need to borrow clothes? I take donations for the Home, as you know, and I guess we can find something that would fit you among the clothes I didn't take to the girls yet…"

"I guess that would be good. I mean, it's already morning…"

"Your dark outfit certainly causes the wrong impression under the morning light, dear."

Selina laughed. "Oh, Leslie… I can't believe this… seating here in your kitchen, with you stitching me up and joking about my very secret double life… it's surreal."

"I agree, darling. Surreal indeed… Who knows? Maybe I'm still dreaming."

"Maybe you are." Selina turned her head to stare at the nurse. "Dream or no dream, Leslie… I know it's too much to ask, but…"

Leslie stopped what she was doing, returning Selina's anxious gaze. Her eyes, however, where placid light blue pools, not a hint of fear or shame. "Your secret is safe with me, Selina."

"Leslie…"

"Listen", asked the old woman. "I know you are, by all standards, a criminal. And I don't approve that. But you're also the person that has helped my girls and done wonderful things for them. I can never thank you enough for that; that's why I will, for now, keep my mouth shut."

Selina looked down to the ceramic tiles of the kitchen's floor. "Thank you, Leslie."

"You are a _good_ person, Selina." Leslie smiled, her beautiful, wise smile. "And, someday, you _will_ discover that."

* * *

It was the end of the morning when Selina found Alfred, who was quietly drinking coffee in the waiting room of Gotham's General surgical floor. She had finally been able to change her clothes and take a quick shower, given her a more civilized appearance, but she had no problem admitting her exhaustion.

"Miss Kyle", Alfred greeted.

"Hey, Alfred." She waited for him to keep talking, but that didn't happen. Alfred merely took another sip of his coffee.

"How is he?", she finally asked.

"Out of surgery", the butler declared, much to Selina's relief. "It seems all went well."

"So, he is…?"

"Out of danger?" Alfred completed. "Oh, no, miss, not just yet. He still has a few tough hours ahead of him…"

"God", she mumbled, allowing her body to fell on the seat next to the butler's, then resting her head on both her hands. "How long until we know for sure…?"

"He's in the ICU, miss, under the best care possible. These things", Alfred whispered, gently tapping Selina's knee, "we can't rush."

She breathed heavily, feeling the fatigue taking over her body. She hadn't rested for a single moment since God knew when, certainly not in the last twenty four hours. She was hurt and exhausted, confused, angry. It wasn't enough all that had happened to her and Bruce – there was more than that to worry about.

Hours before, when they were still at Batman's secret refuge, after Alfred had managed to insert the chest tube in Bruce's thorax – gruesome thing, by the way, she wouldn't want to be there again to watch that -, Selina had decided that she needed to look for Deathstroke's body. Alfred had showed her how to use one of Batman's COM link, even how to access the police frequencies, and she heard many different calls for the strange fire at Gotham's Botanical Garden. That caused her to wonder – she presumed Deathstroke was dead, but… was he? The man had proved he was much more than an ordinary person; what if that included something that had helped him survive that fall?

"I'll meet you at the hospital", she had told Alfred. After they had removed Batman's armor, the plan was to take Bruce to Gotham's General Hospital for much needed medical procedures. They had yet to come up with a convincing story to explain what had happened to a shallow playboy that would have led to him getting shot by restricted ammunition, but that was secondary – Bruce might not agree, but Alfred's verdict was that he needed surgery and, with luck, most of his left lung could be saved.

"Miss Kyle", Alfred had tried to remind her, "you are seriously wounded yourself."

"Well, I can still breath and walk", she shrugged. "Guess that means I'm ready for more – at least in Batman's book."

Alfred had no time no argue, fortunately. He merely showed her the motorcycle in a corner of the room and pointed the exit. "Do you really need to be doing this now?", he asked.

"Gotta take advantage of the dark", she answered, lowering her goggles and accelerating the bike.

It took her a few minutes to reach Robinson Park, approaching it from the opposite side where the Botanical Garden was located. She left the bike in an alley close by, and walked her way through the trees and out of sight. It was almost five o'clock in the morning, and the first lights were visible in a purple sky. That was too much light for her taste already, especially if you added the presence of at least fifty firemen and policemen – an uncomfortable situation, to say the least.

She took a moment to consider how to approach the Garden without being seen. There was a thick curtain of smoke clouding everybody's vision, and the fire hadn't been completely put off; that could provide the camouflage she needed, if not for this: the old building that used to be the greenhouse, now little more than a pile of ember and ashes, was completely surrounded.

_Goddamned_, she cursed. There was no way she could cut through the security line without being seen, either going in or out. Besides, the huge greenhouse was now an unrecognizable thing, a huge stack of twisted steel and burned plants. The firemen tried to search it, the ruins, looking for both survivors and signs of what had caused such destruction. According to their radio, though, they had found nothing. No one.

_No one_, she mused, already making her way back to the bike. _If you were worth of anything_, Selina berated herself, _you would go there and you would search… search until you found him_. Or not. Because, maybe, he wasn't there.

Maybe Deathstroke wasn't dead.

"Miss Kyle?" It was Alfred calling her. He had a cup of coffee in one of his hands, offering it to Selina with a kind smile.

"Thank you, Alfred…" She rubbed both her eyes. "I must have dozed off."

"Yes, you did. Just for a few minutes, though."

Drinking from the plastic cup, Selina discovered the coffee was sour and warm. Still, it was what she had to help keep her awake, and she gladly drank it all.

"Did you find what you were looking for, miss?"

Alfred's voice also sounded tired and hoarse.

"No", she answered, looking at the empty cup in her hands. "It was all for nothing."

"Well", the butler pondered, "not for nothing… you got someone to help you with that bloody wound you had in your arm, didn't you?"

She thought of Leslie, and how she had, recklessly, involved the gentle woman in her messy life. That hadn't been planned, but Selina wondered if there was a better option: she needed help with her wounds, Leslie lived close to the park, and she just couldn't risk piloting a motorcycle around dressed as Catwoman and still bleeding from a bullet wound. It had been a judgment call – perhaps not the best one, but it had served her purposes, at least for the moment.

And if nothing happened to Leslie, maybe things would be just fine.

"Mr. Pennyworth?"

The inquiry had come from a man that had entered the hall in confident, firm steps. He halted while still a few feet away from them, hands inside his jacket's pockets. He was in his mid-forties, slightly overweight, his messy hair cut short. That, and his clothes – dark grey, worn out suit, cheap tie, ruffled white shirt – denounced who he was.

"Oh", Selina spoke, smiling politely, "you're from the police, I assume."

The man nodded:

"That's right." He took a few more steps towards them and reached his right hand. "Detective Gerard Stephen."

"And I'm Alfred Pennyworth." Accepting the handshake the detective offered, Alfred rose from his seat. "What can I do for you, detective?"

"Well, sir", Stephen said as his face turned from gentle to grave in a split second, "you could start by telling me who shot your boss."

* * *

He opened his eyes to find out that everything hurt.

There were bright lights all over, strange, distant sounds around him. He tried to raise his hand to his face, only to find out he couldn't.

He tried to speak, and then he was aware, very aware of the tube inside his throat.

Ruffled voices around him.

"… waking up already…"

"… should be sedated…"

"… too soon for him to be extubated…"

"… call the doctor…"

There was movement around him, and he realized he was lying down, wrists strapped, pain in several places of his body. He struggled, struggled against the slowness of his mind, the dizziness, the thing in his throat. His limbs were heavy, his head weighted a ton, his chest on fire at every breath… and he fought, he fought those restrains, he gagged from the tube in his mouth.

"… hold him down…"

"… tighter! These restrains have to be tighter…"

There were cold hands pushing him down, the unpleasant touch and unfamiliar voices. Memories, thoughts, images: he heard laughs, coming from far away… a pale clown's face. Fire, fire that burned, Rachel's screams, the sounds of shots, his dead mother… _Not real_, he told himself. It couldn't be real. It couldn't be true.

It was all true. It had happened, it had all happened, and bats flew around him, and he felt fear and comfort. And pain.

He wanted to scream, and he wanted to throw up, and he wanted the thing in his throat _out_, out right _now_, and he pulled his arm until he heard the sounds of something breaking, the bed under him shaking violently, shocked screams around him. _Let me go_, he wanted to say, _I must go, I've to go, let me go, let me out_…

He felt his face wet, sweat and tears, his eyelids forcing themselves shut… but he would not allow. No. Not the darkness. Not again. No…

And then, there were warm, gentle, soft palms on his face.

"Bruce", he heard. A muffled sound, a whisper traveling from far away. "Bruce, listen…"

That was his name. _Bruce_. Yes, he was Bruce, and also someone else…

"Please, calm down…", asked the voice. Her voice. A familiar, lovely sound.

There it was: her face. Blurred and unclear, a shadow, nothing but the brightness of her emerald green eyes burned into his mind. Her smell. Sweet, sweet scent, her hand over his chest, and he was aware of his beating, pounding heart.

Alive. He was alive.

"It's okay… listen to me, listen to my voice…"

She was close, so close, right _there_, and he did what she asked: he focused in her voice, following it through the dark, spiraling tunnels of his mind.

"They can't take you out of the ventilator, Bruce, not just yet…" Sorrow. There was sorrow there, in her voice, in her eyes, in the way she seemed to apologize and ask, beg to him:

"Just let go, Bruce… Just… sleep…"

She was holding his hand now, hissing sounds and beepings, other voices, all fading away as he watched her come closer, closer to him, the warmth of her body over his arm, her soft cheek brushing his…

Her lips lightly kissing his forehead.

And then, darkness.

* * *

Doctor Thomas Elliot was having a bad day, and he eagerly wished someone would pay for that.

He hadn't slept for a single second the whole night – Talia's visit had upset him to no end. Invading his house, decapitating his prisoner, disrupting his life. Trying to bossy him around. Hiring mercenaries to deal with something they had agreed, _agreed_ to deal in very, very different manner…

"If Batman can't deal with hired guns", she had explained, "he is not worthy of my attention."

Fuck your attention, he wanted to tell her. To hell with your plans, and your schemes, and your craziness.

If not for that whore Selina Kyle, he would be in a better position to do to Talia what she deserved. Oh, how sweet if he could just take the scalpel she had used to kill the girl and turn it against her… How delightful if he could just slowly peel her soft skin from her flesh, if he could just cut her tongue off and make her swell it…

Someday.

Not that night, though.

That night, he had to simply watch her while she spoke, he had to endure her insults and orders. He knew little, almost nothing about Talia, and he was pretty sure that most of what she had told him was lies. That woman had secrets and tricks, resources, skills. She had aces in her sleeve, and he wouldn't risk any moves before being sure of his victory. That was his game style; it had always been.

After Talia had left his house, Tommy had went to the bathroom and taken a cold shower, screaming in rage while doing it. That had helped – he felt lighter and calmer, able to deal with the most pressing matters in his life. Before morning came, he had already sutured his thigh – over thirty stitches, thanks a lot, Selina, you bitch – and went down stairs to deal with the girl's body.

_What a fucking mess_, he thought to himself as he started to chop her limbs. He would have to change his beloved _modus operandi_ this time, much to his dismay. There was usually a very pleasing moment when he placed the body in a certain way, and looked at it for a precise amount of time, and then, when he heard the news about the police finding it, he would be able to picture it and rejoice about it. Now? Now it was all gone. Talia ruined it, ruined it completely, and he had to dispose of the body quickly, before it started to smell bad and rot…

He had finished with the girl around seven A.M., and felt completely exhausted. He called the hospital and said he wasn't feeling well, and that he shouldn't be disturbed. He hated that, hated giving his patients to those stupid residents and imbecile colleagues, hated that he had to tell people he was sick – such a mundane, dumb thing… he never got sick, and he loved that. It made him feel powerful and infallible, untouchable, more than human.

But he _was_ human, too human, it seemed. Those whores had reminded him of that, and now he wished nothing more than to get rid of the both of them, in very painful and torturing ways. But that was for later. After he had slept for a few hours.

And so he did, in the darkness of his room, feeling safe under the thought that no Batman and no Catwoman could venture outside in the daylight. They were vampires, creatures of the night, aberrations, unable to walk the real world like ordinary people… and that was his advantage. Because he was still Thomas Elliot and, as far as the world was concerned, he had nothing to hide.


	12. The Road Ahead

"So", asked detective Stephen, "this is the spot?"

"Yeah", Selina nodded, arms crossed over her chest while watching the CSI team exam the ground near Palisades Road.

"And you were in the car with him?"

"Yeah", she repeated, giving no other details.

She and Alfred had come up with this little story to tell the police, and Selina was doing her part. A very simple tale: once upon a Saturday night, Bruce Wayne and his friend Selina Kyle were driving the Lamborghini in the fairly deserted Palisades Road, planning to go to Wayne Manor. A few miles from the mansion, though, they were forced to stop because a vehicle was blocking the road. Bruce had lost control of the car, and they hit a tree; if that wasn't bad enough, what followed was worst: a masked man approached and shot Bruce, than leaving quickly in the other car. Selina was left with Bruce, who was bleeding and gasping for air. He still managed to tell her to call Alfred, which she did, and that was how they ended there: Bruce in the hospital, fighting for his life.

"How was that man, again?"

"I told you already", Selina complained.

"Tell me again. I'm an old guy, my memory is no longer what once was…"

Selina sighed, but complied. "Tall, big guy, masked, dressed like a soldier…"

"You said his mask was _orange_?"

"Partially. Half orange, half black."

"Right…"

Deathstroke was either dead or gone, at least for now. If he decided to return, however, Selina took comfort in the thought that he would at least already have Gotham's Police chasing his mercenary ass.

"You drove Wayne back to his house."

"Mr. Pennyworth asked me to."

Detective Stephen seemed very unconvinced about her whole story, but there wasn't much he could do about it; Selina was sure there were a few holes in her tale, but every story does, right? She had, under Alfred's instructions, found the cave bellow the Manor, and retrieved a few bags of Bruce's blood he had stored – the fact they even had that in the house was a very strange thought -, then spreading it inside the car and there, by the road. There were very specific patterns she had to follow when doing it, so it would match their story, and Selina deeply hoped she hadn't screw up. Just as she hoped her driving skills were good enough to provide the tire marks that would corroborate what she had said about hitting the tree.

It was very fortunately that it had rained most of the night: it would lower the police's expectations of identifying a few details, such as the bullet that had hit Bruce.

"You never called the cops… you, or Pennyworth."

"Bruce was dying, Detective Stephen. We had a lot in our minds."

"Hm-hum…"

Selina hated to admit, but Stephen looked like one of the rare good cops in town. He was actually trying to solve that murder attempt, for example.

"So", insisted the detective, "you and Wayne…"

"We're _friends_."

"Friends. Friends that go to each other's houses in the middle of the night. _Special_ friends, I'm guessing."

"You could say that."

"Just so I can understand… you were coming _here_, to Wayne's house…"

"That's right."

"But where were you coming _from_?"

"I told you… my place."

"See, but I don't get that…" Stephen had scrutinizing, clever eyes. "_Why_ would you leave your house? In the middle of the night like that? Couldn't you wait until morning?"

Selina chuckled; yeah, Detective Stephen was a smart one. Not smart _enough_, but close to that.

"I wanted to swim, Detective", she shrugged, "and Wayne Manor has a wonderful pool."

* * *

Doctor Thomas Elliot had an unpleasant surprised that Monday morning. He took his anger out on his secretary:

"Why didn't you tell me about Bruce Wayne getting admitted?"

"Dr. Elliot, you specifically told me you wouldn't want to be bothered…"

"Does this looks like bothersome to you, Karen? Does it?"

"I'm sorry, Dr. Elliot, I just assumed…"

"You _assumed_? Assumed? Since when have I asked you to make presumptions?"

The woman looked down to her own feet. "Never, sir."

"Never, Karen, that's right. You answer the phone, take messages, schedule surgeries and meetings. You don't assume, you don't try to _think_ like me. Never."

"Yes, Dr. Elliot."

"Thinking, that's not why you're here. I'll do the thinking. You do the phone."

"Yes, Dr. Elliot."

"Please, leave me for a moment." He idly waved a hand towards the door. "Go. Out. C'mon, hurry up."

The woman left, tears in her eyes.

"_Moron"_, Thomas Elliot thought to himself quietly. He was sat behind his desk, looking at Bruce Wayne's medical records. The surgery had gone well: both doctors that were on call the night before had done a terrific job, he hated to admit.

"_If only had been me…!"_ He had no idea of what he would have done. So many possibilities…! A wound like that, things could go so many different ways. He could have been just a little less resourceful than the surgeons that operated on Bruce, and the outcome would have been so different… Permanent damage to the arm, or the spine, even brain damage from the lack of oxygen. Bruce forever condemned to a bed, or even dead. Bruce a drooling, incapacitated idiot for the rest of his life, with Alfred changing his diapers for another thirty years or so. How wonderful…

Not that all this was out of question just yet. Bruce was there, in the ICU, in a ventilator, under heavy medication. There were at least a dozen things that could go wrong. _Very_ wrong. And no one would be remotely surprised.

He put on his white coat and left the office, telling Karen on the way out:

"I'm going down stairs for rounds. Call me if it's important – you can handle this simple request, can't you, Karen?"

"Yes, Dr. Elliot." Her eyes were red and swelled.

"And clean up your face, Karen. Dear God, what would people think if they saw you like this?"

Without waiting for an answer, Dr. Elliot left his officer.

* * *

Selina arrived at Gotham's General around noon, waiting for good news. Instead, she found Thomas Elliot.

He was standing in the ICU's floor reception, talking to Alfred while displaying a concerned and thoughtful expression. His hand on Alfred's shoulder, he nodded his head and spoke softly, apparently discussing medical facts. Neither men noticed her approach; she got close enough to speak in a low, though threatening whisper:

"Get _out_", she hissed, coldly staring at Tommy.

Both Alfred and Elliot glanced at her in surprise. She could see that the butler was sincerely puzzled, while the doctor seemed to be more intrigued as to why Selina Kyle was there, talking to them, trying to boss him around in _his_ natural environment – hospitals.

"Miss Kyle", Alfred tried to explain, "Dr. Elliot is Master Wayne's oldest friend. He is Chief of Surgery in…"

"That's all great, Alfred, but you're mistaken." She searched for Tommy's eyes, finding them returning her gaze in equal fury and resentment. "Dr. Elliot here is a miserable prick, and I doubt he's anybody's friend but himself."

Alfred's face translated his shock. Thomas Elliot, on the other hand, managed to speak softly and calmly:

"C'mon, Selina… you're making this too personal… Bruce and I, we are long time friends, and this here has nothing to do with _us_. Things may have not worked out between us, but…"

"Are you freaking kidding me? Really, you're going to try to pull this off, the 'offended ex-lover' bullshit…?" She raised her index finger close to Elliot's face. "Don't forget it, Tommy, I know how you treat women that don't buy your little boy scout act…"

Thomas Elliot did nothing but coldly smile. Then, he turned to Alfred:

"I'm sorry, Alf, I'll have to ask you to excuse me… It seems I have unfinished business with lovely Selina here…"

Alfred frowned, but before he could say anything, Selina cut in:

"It's okay, Alfred. Tommy is right. We've lots to talk about…"

She turned to leave the room, immediately followed by Dr. Elliot. Never looking back, Selina just made her way to the building's staircases. There she stopped, not a bit surprised to see that Tommy's expression changed as soon as the door closed behind him: his docile, serene features were taken by rage:

"You whore…", he snarled. He was about three feet from her, hands inside his white coat.

"Hey!" She interrupted him before he could expand on his less than flattering opinion about her. "Shut up. Just shut up and listen…!"

He complied, his cold eyes locked on hers. Selina kept talking:

"Stay away from Bruce, Tommy. You don't touch him, you don't get _close_ to him, understand?"

"Oh… I see. Honestly, Selina, that's not very realistic, is it?" He sarcastically put it. "I'm not merely a doctor in this hospital, I'm chief surgeon, and I have a few of my own patients in that ICU. Besides, wouldn't be _strange_ if Bruce's best friend…"

"I don't _care_! You do the explaining, _Doctor_! All I know is, if something, _anything_ happens to Bruce, I'll press charges." She raised her sleeve to reveal dark bruises on her wrist. "I don't think it will be hard to match these to your precious surgeon hands, will it?"

Elliot smirked.

"Maybe not… but perhaps the police won't really _care _once they find out about your night job…"

Selina held her breath for a second, feeling a sudden and unpleasant cold sensation hit her stomach.

"Oh, nothing to say now, Kitty-cat…?" Tommy's smile was wicked, cruel, his blue eyes flashing in anger and delight.

"You can't prove anything", Selina whispered.

"Can't I? Oh, well, we'll have to wait and see, won't we?"

He made a move to grab her, but she was quicker: her nails buried in the flesh of his arm. He didn't seem to care, though, teeth clenched in a weird, sick grin, fighting her as his free hand managed to get hold of her face, clasping painfully on both her cheeks.

"Ask yourself, Selina… is Bruce worth it? Is he worth ruining your little act, risking jail for _life_?"

She didn't answer, and didn't have too: all she did was gently slip the blade hidden up her forearm to her hand, its cold tip touching Tommy's crotch.

He violently pushed her away from him, Selina keeping herself from falling down the stairs by grabbing the handrail – she privately thought that it would be easy for her to return his rudeness in the same way, perhaps giving Tommy yet another scar to remember her, but she contained her impulses. If Elliot was right about something was this: that was _his_ territory, that hospital, and there he had power enough to make her life very difficult.

Besides, she had Bruce to think about.

"_You_ listen to _me_, bitch", Elliot was saying, a threatening whisper spoken in hatred, "if you get in my way, you'll end your days in Blackgate, hear me?"

She didn't answer. He smiled:

"Or maybe Arkham, how about that? I much liked the work my friend Dr. Crane was doing there before Batman interfered… And I think the place suits you, don't you? A luxurious resort for those that think dressing in costumes and walking on rooftops are fun ways to spend their nights…"

Selina stared at Thomas Elliot for a moment, silently watching him laugh.

"What? You don't think it's funny? C'mon, Selina, you have to see how incredibly pathetic that is… a grown woman dressed as a _cat_? There are less ridiculous costumes in strip clubs."

Still showing him her knife, she went for the door; he didn't stop her.

"I'm warning you, Tommy. If anything happens to Bruce, police or no police, you'll have to answer to _me_. And I'm not known for my generosity."

"Big words for someone whose life is always hanging by a thread."

She looked over her shoulder, gazing at him in her most honest, somber gaze. "Then don't turn me into someone that has nothing to lose, Dr. Elliot – who knows what a crazy woman is capable of?"

And she allowed the heavy door to close loudly behind her.

* * *

Selina's last words before leaving had taken his smile with her. _Damn bitch_, Thomas Elliot cursed. His hate for Selina Kyle grew and grew, and now he wondered how long would he be able to refrain those instincts that told him that he needed, just _needed_ to get rid of her.

He would do it, eventually; but the key word there was "eventually", of course.

Because Selina Kyle, and her counterpart, Catwoman, still had a role to play in his plans. Oh, well, _their_ plans. Talia and his; or, perhaps, it was more accurate to say that Talia and he had common interests and goals and, for now, they had been able to combine them – and despite the fact he _also_ hated Talia for what she had done the other night, there was no doubt that her mercenary Deathstroke had been very useful. Tommy could admire someone like her, that had long arms in the underworld, that was able to reach things like mercenaries and the black market so easily, much like one walks into the closest supermarket and buy groceries. He had a few things to learn from her, there was no shame in admitting it.

He finally saw it now: Batman, Catwoman, Deathstroke… strange names, stranger habits, but maybe they all, Tommy included, indeed lived in a strange world. Maybe that was the only way to deal with Bruce, after all. The only way to really get him: dressing like a freak and attacking from behind a mask, threatening the things he loved and not simply killing him – destroying him. That's what he should accomplish.

Selina was so worried, but she shouldn't be. He wouldn't admit it to her, but she was right… he should keep his distance from Bruce. At least for now, at least in the hospital. He couldn't risk his place there, his career, his name. Bruce Wayne dying there wouldn't help; it wouldn't help the hospital, it would be bad for business and, above all, it wouldn't be right. That wouldn't be the way he wanted it to happen, Bruce's downfall: without looking at his old friends eyes and watching him suffer; Bruce never knowing it had been him, Thomas Elliot, the one that ruined his life.

That wouldn't be very fulfilling, after all.

Death? Yes, Bruce's death would be nice. Turning him into a cripple, bedridden bastard? Even better. But those things would be momentarily satisfying. He wanted something more, he wanted something that would be more permanent and painful, something that could bring Bruce down and destroy him, hurt him deeply and turn him into a hopeless creature, unable to ever get back on his feet…

Something like the death of his parents. Or Rachel's death – damn Joker-clown… he had hit the jackpot last year, and he probably didn't even know how perfect his strike had been… Those events, those were pivotal moments, and tragedies Bruce had never really overcome. Watching his parents getting killed had turned Bruce into Batman; failing to protect and save Rachel had brought Bruce to a dark place he still struggled to leave. It might have seem like Bruce had nothing to lose, not anymore… or at least Tommy thought for a while. But now, now he wasn't so sure. There was Gotham – Batman would always have Gotham. And Bruce… well, now Bruce had someone to care:

Selina – maybe she was just what Tommy had been hoped for. The one thing they could use to get to Bruce once again.

Talia thought so. She believed Catwoman was what they hoped for, the one piece that could crumble Bruce's fragile castle of cards. And Tommy was beginning to see it also.

He certainly hoped so; he was tired, so tired of watching Bruce triumph. Again and again, the most boring successful story ever, the perfect contrast to all the misery in his _own_ life…

_Because things always work out for you, don't they, Bruce?_ It was ironical and sad, how Tommy failed again and again when Bruce succeeded by dumb luck and chance. He would never forget: the morning he learned Thomas and Martha Wayne were dead, his mother telling him Bruce would be the richest and loneliest little boy in Gotham from now on… and Tommy knew his mother wanted him to feel _sorry_ for Bruce – she would never imagine that when Tommy cried he did it not for Bruce, but for himself.

He had cried, because once again Bruce had been the lucky one. Like he had been before, when he had his perfect parents and perfect little family. How many times had Thomas Elliot watched Bruce with his parents, happy and joyful, and felt nothing but bitter resentment? All _he _had at home was his abusive father and crazy mother, both alcoholics and quick to blame their son for anything that went wrong. Between mother's poisonous words and his father's fists, well, it was no surprise that soon Tommy was wishing his parents dead…

Oh, but who was the lucky little boy that got to get rid of his parents in such a young age…? Bruce, of course. Oh, his great, wonderful parents were dead? Now, look who was free to enjoy all his fortune as he pleased, be the center of attentions, earn favor by pity, get admitted without effort to any college, travel the world and win all the girls…! Not that Bruce ever saw it that way, and that was the magic of it all: he would always believe he had been robbed of something, when he had, instead, been given a gift. And it was by believing that he had been the victim of a tragedy that Bruce had turned into a better, even more special person than he already was.

Tommy had always thought that by becoming a doctor, the _best_ doctor, he would be special. Oh, he was wrong. _Dead_ wrong. There was nothing special or great about doctors. Surgeons are boring people that kill almost as much as they save lives, that are constantly afraid of lawsuits and of screwing things up. Doctors are scared little people that are, deep inside, like any other kind of people. Hell, not even the money was that good. Certainly not worthy of all the trouble and long hours, all the whining from patients and their families, all the daily complains from the staff and colleagues. If he ever thought being a doctor would be exciting... he was now convinced those long years of study had been in vain.

And all the while he was in college, working hard for a degree that hadn't done for him what he imagined it would? Bruce was learning how to beat people up and use all kinds of weapons, living exciting adventures. Turning into the one thing that was far more heroic than saving lives in an operating room: an actual hero that fights crime.

There was no way to beat Bruce, it seemed. But then again, his mother used to repeat: fortune favors the bold. Perhaps Tommy hadn't been bold enough. Perhaps he had been too ordinary, too boring, content to waste his brilliant mind in something _any_ men could do. He didn't need to be a genius to be a good doctor, and that was alright. Because now, now he knew what he had to do.

In Gotham, you always had to get _creative_ if you wanted to be someone noteworthy… and he was finally ready to take that next step.

* * *

"He's out of the ventilator", Alfred was telling her, "but still sedated. They will gradually reduce the medication, and he should be awake in the next few hours."

"That's good", Selina said, watching Bruce in his hospital bed. He had been moved to a private bedroom after three days in the ICU, and the doctors had been able to successfully wean him off the ventilator. His recovery was, in few words, nothing less than miraculous.

But then again, Bruce was anything but an ordinary man.

Alfred had been able to convince the hospital's administration that Mr. Wayne should be taken to the most private accommodations they could arrange. The press was already piling on Gotham's General Hospital's entrance, and there was much talk about Bruce Wayne being the target of a murder attempt. That was indeed the police's first guess, and security reasons also played a part in the decision of moving Bruce to a more isolated area of the hospital, with Wayne Enterprises' private security in place and the police patrolling the halls and searching anyone that got close to the bedroom's door.

Selina wasn't very comfortable around cops and armed men that were too eager to use their guns, but she was the first to acknowledge that no amount of security was enough to keep someone like Deathstroke away. In fact, she had hardly been able to leave Bruce's side, wondering if even her presence would be enough to intimidate the mercenary if he actually wanted to finish the job he started. There was the possibility that Slade Wilson was _dead_, but she believed that to be more and more unlikely. As far as she knew, no bodies were recovered from the ruins of Gotham's Botanical Garden, and she had done all in her power to check the information – that included hacking into police database, which was a very easy job once Alfred showed her that Batman _already_ did that on regular bases, and all she had to do was hit "connect" in the computer he kept in his hideout.

Besides, even if Deathstroke was out of the game – for now or forever, who could actually tell -, well, they had no idea who had hired him. Someone with money. Someone that had ways to access the network of the underworld. Someone that deeply hated Batman (or Catwoman, or both). That meant the person that wanted him, or her, or the both of them dead was still out there, and could easily hire yet _another_ mercenary to finish what Deathstroke couldn't do.

So many disturbing thoughts.

On the bright side, Bruce was doing well. One good thing, at least.

Alfred and she took turns to be with him, and Selina realized how odd the situation was. Truth to be told, she barely knew that man there, lying on that bed and fighting for his life. Learning he was Batman hadn't eased the feeling that there was so much about him that was a mystery to her. She had always wondered, of course, who was the man under Batman's cowl; she even suspected Bruce could be it before the other night. But simply _knowing _it wasn't enough, she now recognized. In truth, it had brought more questions than answers.

Alfred was there with her most of the time, and she asked him things. About Bruce. About his childhood, about his parents, about his life. And even though she appreciated how Alfred was so patient and thoughtful, how he was a wonderful storyteller, how open he seemed to be with her, she also felt terribly. Deep inside, she knew: that was wrong. She shouldn't be asking others about Bruce; she shouldn't try to learn about him when he was there, unconscious, unable to make the choice of what he wanted her to know about him. His story was his own, she knew, to share or keep it secret, just like she would have wanted for herself.

On the other hand, most of what Alfred could tell her was just childhood tales and few scraps of stories that the butler had known of, sometimes through Bruce, sometimes through others. There were so many unknown things, so much about Bruce that was lost in there, inside him, out of reach. _He's a very private person_, Alfred would say. _I bet_, Selina would agree. Private, secret, lonely. She knew all that too well.

The first night he was out of the ventilator one of the nurses had asked her:

"You're not Rachel, are you?"

"No", she declared. "Why?"

"He mumbled the name", the woman said, "over and over."

_Rachel._ She hadn't asked Alfred about it, but it took her just a few minutes with her smartphone to figure it out: the Assistant D.A. that had been killed last summer, known, among other things, for her childhood connections with Bruce Wayne. Tragically murdered by the Joker in an explosion. Young, gorgeous, successful. Her obituary could still be found online – it was beautiful and touching, obviously written by someone that loved her and knew her deeply.

Selina bet it had been Bruce.

Rachel Dawes. Was that the name of the woman that had his heart?

Although she was curious about Rachel and what was the story with her and Bruce, she hadn't reunited the courage to ask. There are things that are best left unsaid, and the tale of a lost, unrequited love is one of them. It's not something you would want to measure yourself against, under any circumstances… dead girlfriend beats living one, every single time.

And to think of herself as being Bruce's _anything_, a girlfriend, of all things… how silly, wasn't it? People in the hospital, the police, even Alfred – she noticed how often they all felt uneasy around her. Who was she, really? A friend? A lover? A casual affair? Maybe even a suspicious person that happened to cross Bruce Wayne's path when he was target of a murder attempt? All of the above, most people believed. Even Alfred: he had been polite and surprisingly friendly, but Selina had no illusions. The butler knew she was Catwoman, and Catwoman was, at the end of the day, still a _criminal_. She was a wildcard, unpredictable, and not inclined to play by the rules. There couldn't be a _worst_ kind of girlfriend for Bruce, right?

Besides, to be perfectly honest, even Selina wondered what her own road would be from now on. Truth was, she wasn't convinced that Catwoman was ready to settle down just yet.


	13. The Unsaid

Sounds came before images, his numb brain taking reality by bits, absorbing information in such a sluggish, unusual pace.

But there were noises; voices and steps, the ruffle sounds of someone gently walking close to his bed, the grave thunder that was a door slamming somewhere.

And light. There was light.

He could move. He could feel: the touch warming his skin, the pain in his chest and shoulder, his neck stiff and unresponsive. Light, spots, dark shadows and his eyes slowly making sense of his surroundings. A window. Cold metal touching his feet, and then his legs.

"Can you feel this, Mr. Wayne?"

He didn't recognize the voice, but nodded. He felt. He felt it all. He was in pain, and he was pure joy.

He was back.

There were things happening around him, but he wasn't worried. Not at first. First, he had to regain control. And so he did, breathing deeply and slowly, fighting the discomfort and enjoying the mere act of air coming and going, in and out, without him spitting blood or coughing – much.

"Take it easy, Bruce…"

A woman. Her silhouette right in front of him, her light hands on his arm.

Hazel eyes.

"Talia", he mumbled, his voice scratching his throat and coming out almost as a bark.

"Hush…" She placed a finger over his lips, her smile a clear sight, just inches from his face. "Don't speak. Your throat will hurt. You were intubated, did you know?"

He didn't know. He assumed, though.

Her face was getting more and more clear, her delicate features brightened by sunlight. "You're going to be fine." Her fingers caressed his face, and he noticed he was unshaved; for five or six days, he guessed. "It's almost a miracle…"

Even in his semi-conscious state he must have looked puzzled –she was explaining herself:

"I'm here with Leslie. Leslie Thompkins? From the orphanage? She knew your parents, and your butler. Wanted company to come here." She broadened her smile. "I'm so glad I came… and could be the first one to see you awake."

He heard it, the door again. Steps, at least two people. And a familiar, comforting voice:

"Master Bruce!"

_Alfred._

Next to him, Leslie Thompkins – she smiled, and followed Alfred to get closer to the bed.

"Sir."

He discerned Alfred's placid features, wearing one of his satisfied, cheerful expressions that Bruce so rarely saw these days. Under his sobriety, though, misty eyes and trembling hands, his fingers grasping Bruce's wrist in a gentle, emotional grip.

"Welcome back, sir", he mumbled.

Bruce nodded, faintly smiling himself. And then, he looked once again around the room. Searching; searching for _her_.

All he saw was the door, closing softly and silently, in a goodbye that was never said.

* * *

Selina leaned against the wall, eyes closed and a racing heart, both hands over her face.

He was awake. Finally, at last, he was awake.

And she couldn't go in there and face him.

The game had to end. She was no hero, no rich girl, not girlfriend material, less of all an ally. They were together by chance, forced in a strange alliance because of stranger situations. They were not a team, or friends, or even had something in common but that unnatural ability of attracting trouble.

_They_, as in "they", were a mistake.

He was a great guy. He was Batman. He was awake, and probably already plotting how to fight back.

She was, despite all her efforts, plotting her escape.

They – what a silly idea.

She took a deep breath.

And walked away.

* * *

The next day, Bruce woke up feeling much better. He even risked a few words:

"Where is she?"

Alfred looked at him from the chair on the corner of the room, where he read Henry James.

"By 'she' I presume you refer to... Miss Kyle?"

The butler expression was stoic, unemotional.

"Yes, Alfred. Selina. Is she…?"

"Perfectly fine, sir." He turned his gaze back to the book. "Probably taking the morning to sleep in – something you should do yourself, I must add."

Bruce sighed, a gesture that immediately reminded him of the sharp pain in his chest. He had refused any kind of pain relief, wanting to regain his keen senses and quick mind as soon as possible, but he couldn't deny that he was frequently reminded that it wasn't an easy choice.

"She helped us", he declared.

"Quite a lot", Alfred agreed. He took a moment to look away from his book again, then closing it and placing it on his knees. "She saved you life, sir. In more ways than one."

"I'm aware of that."

"I'm glad to hear it, sir."

Bruce pursed his lips, his eyes fighting the morning light that came through the window. "Why didn't she stay…?"

"Master Wayne." Alfred interrupted him, his tone in unusual severity. "For all Miss Kyle did for you, I must ask you: please, respect her privacy."

Bruce frowned. "I do, Alfred. I always…"

"No, you don't, sir. I don't mean to criticize you, or judge you. All I want is for you to understand that Miss Kyle has been thrown into this without being asked if she was ready for it."

"Alfred. Selina made her own choices."

"She didn't, sir. That night, when you…" The butler halted for a moment, than speaking in a low whisper: "When you _showed _her your face, you placed an enormous responsibility on her shoulders. One she may not have been ready for."

"She wouldn't betray me, Alfred."

"I agree, sir." He opened his book again. "But what will be the cost of such loyalty?"

Bruce silenced. He had no answer to that.

* * *

The day he was finally discharged, Talia offered to help take him home. She had been visiting every afternoon for the last three days, often bringing gifts and always so joyful and kind.

Nevertheless, Bruce gently denied the offer:

"Alfred and I can handle it."

"I heard there are long stairs in Wayne Manor."

"True. But I'll probably take one of the guestrooms downstairs."

"All arrangements were taken care of, Master Bruce." Alfred assured. "The studio was turned into a very pleasant infirmary."

Talia laughed. "All right. I won't insist. I know when I'm not wanted…"

"Nothing like that, my dear. But I do have a reputation to think about, and I wouldn't want to look…"

"Vulnerable?" She blinked playfully. "I think I've seen you in your worst shape yet, Bruce… everything else will be nothing but an improvement."

"Maybe. I won't risk it, though." He was seating on the bed, already completely dressed and ready to leave. Reaching for Talia's hand, he kissed it lightly. "Your visit is welcomed, though… tomorrow?"

"I'll think about it." She had an impertinent, youthful way of smiling that always reminded him of Rachel. Waving a goodbye to Alfred, she left the room.

Bruce immediately turned to the butler. "Are we ready to go?"

"Almost. There are a few papers to be signed." He approached the bed with formularies and a pen. "Here, Master Bruce. You must assure the hospital that you know you're leaving against their advice."

"They wanted to keep me for another week, Alfred. That's absurd."

"Indeed. While fighting crime dressed as bat is a very logical thing, of course."

Bruce glanced at the butler in disapproval, but said nothing. Alfred, on the other hand, didn't seem prone to keep quiet:

"You and Ms. Head are getting very close, aren't you? Daily visits, long conversations, even inviting her to the house…"

"Shut up, Alfred." Bruce had his eyes on the forms, and didn't even look up to stare at the butler.

"I'm not criticizing the behavior in any way, sir…! Quite contrary. I think it's very healthy that you are engaging in…"

"I'm not engaging in anything, Alfred. Talia is… friendly, that's all. She's a nice girl."

"Ah… nice."

"Yes, _nice._ Just nice. Just… a good person." He sighed, finally dropping the forms over the bed and slowly moving his wounded shoulder up and down, frowning in pain as he did it. "I'm not interested in her like _that_. You know why."

"Because of Miss Kyle, I believe."

Bruce left the bed and stood up, his left arm stabled in a sling, still limping from the wound in his right leg. In the mirror, he saw his face: his nose still slightly swelled, dark smudges under his eyes, pale skin, sunken cheeks denouncing his sudden lost of weight. "I don't understand, Alfred."

"What is that, sir?"

"Why", he said, rubbing his face with his free hand, "why did she leave? Why, just when I was getting well…"

"Maybe, sir", Alfred pondered, "she didn't want to deal with all the questions."

"What questions? What are you talking about?"

"Your _questions_, sir." He appeared in the mirror next to Bruce, his gentle eyes watching the younger man's reflex. "About what would happen now. About the future of… well, you know. Your future; yours, and hers, and the consequences of all that happened between you two. As Bruce and Selina and also…"

"You think she's scared", Bruce interrupted, "that maybe I'll want her to _fix_ her mistakes."

"Well, sir… Maybe she just doesn't believe those were mistakes at all; have you considered that?"

Bruce didn't answer. The thing was, yes, he had thought about that.

He just didn't want to believe it.

* * *

Selina heard the bell from her bedroom, and seriously thought about ignoring it.

The only reason she didn't was because of Dective Stephen. He had been knocking on her door on daily basis, always with more unpleasant questions. Selina was convinced the man wanted to frame her for something, and his constant reminds that she shouldn't leave Gotham were increasingly annoying and worrisome. Not that she had intentions of leaving Gotham right now: to do it would be ask for trouble, and she wanted none. Besides, a good part of her money was invested there, in her house and in the now mostly abandoned store, and she wouldn't give it up so fast. Not unless she was desperate.

And she wasn't desperate. Not yet.

It didn't matter that Bruce had corroborated her story: Gotham PD just wasn't falling for that so easily. They had identified Deathstroke as Slade Wilson, and were trying to find him – as if! -, but Selina Kyle was still looked at with distrust. To no surprise Dective Stephen had uncovered the story of her childhood, up until the moment she had escaped the orphanage, and he was pretty interested in that. Selina didn't share his enthusiasm, but had endured his visits and interrogatories with unusual patience. Anything to avoid problems… oh, well, _bigger_ problems than she already had.

That's why she fought her tired body and stubborn mind, and forced herself out of bed. Slowly she went downstairs, dressed in her silk robe and slippers. She opened the door, never bothering to ask who was on the other side.

"Hello, Selina."

It wasn't detective Stephen.

* * *

He was surprised, at first, to see her like that: dressed so casually, in such normal, ordinary clothes.

"I'm sorry", he quickly apologized. "I… you're not busy, are you?"

She looked pretty perplexed herself, but was faster to regain her self-assured, confident pose. "Do I _look_ busy to you?"

He didn't answer. It was obvious that she wasn't in her best mood, and that wasn't how he had envisioned that moment. So clumsy, weird, odd.

"When did you leave the hospital?" She was still standing at the same spot, a shoulder leaning on the doorframe, a suspicious expression as she examined him carefully with those extraordinary emerald eyes of hers.

He thought about lying, but didn't:

"Right now", he said without enthusiasm.

"Bruce…" She was waving her head in disbelief, glaring at him in clear disapproval. "Are you crazy?"

He smiled. "I thought we agreed… not crazy, just overconfident."

"That's for sure." She granted. Then, she took a step back: "Come inside, silly… I don't want you passing out on my doorstep."

* * *

He followed her to the living room, taking a seat on her couch as she sat on the coffee table directly in front of him.

"I know why you're here, Bruce."

"Oh, do you? That's quite a feat, since I'm not so sure of the reason myself."

She rolled her eyes. "I don't want to play games."

"Neither do I", he bluntly said, before she could even finish her sentence. "I assure you, I'm not here to go over what happened, or to discuss arrangements, or…"

"You", she suddenly spoke, an accusatory finger placed between them and pointing at him, "_knew_!"

"Knew?"

"You knew who I was. You knew it, and you…!" She yelled in frustration, hands clasping tightly in her own dark hair. "How could you do that? How could you leave me in the dark while you _knew…?_!?"

He didn't answer – she wasn't finished:

"And then… then, when you're about to die… when you're bleeding to death, when you knew I couldn't _deny_ you anything… _that's _when you decide to tell me?"

"It wasn't that simple."

"I know! I know, it's not simple, it's not…" Searching for his eyes, Selina held his gaze in hers, a scrutinizing expression in her features. "Listen."

"I'm listening."

She looked tired and exceptionally stern, someone that desperately needed to be taken seriously.

"I won't take it, Bruce. I'm not a disposable item, someone that you can use at your convenience, an occasional ally that will be forgotten when more _pressing_ matters need your attention. That's not me. And I'm not someone you can _control_, predict, make arrangements with, demand things from. Either you do your thing or you let me do mine. If you want to be my enemy, fine, we're enemies, but…"

"Selina", he interrupted, his hand firmly grasping her knee. "Hey, hey, slow down…!"

"No, I'm not slowing down. You have to understand."

He could debate. Argue. Agree. They could talk for hours and never reach a favorable scenario. They could go over their differences and never find a common ground. And maybe they wouldn't.

And maybe it didn't matter.

Because he wouldn't let her escape him anymore. She was right. It was something that had to be done _now_.

He acted fast.

* * *

She barely saw his hand left her knee, his right hand, the arm that wasn't in the sling. She felt his palm on the back of her neck, his fingers tangled on her hair, he firmly pulling her head towards him.

Their lips together.

There was something clumsy and abrupt about their mouths meeting like that, and she was confused for a moment, paralyzed, unsure of what to do, even what to believe. But he, he wasn't confused. He had it all figured out, it seemed, gently forcing her lips to part and searching her tongue with his, deepening their kiss by angling his head and getting closer to her.

His taste. His scent. His hand, his solid touch, guiding her to him. Asking, _demanding_ more.

She responded. She returned his kiss, allowed him to explore her: tongue, and mouth, and lower lip, and his nose grazing her cheek, his breath on her neck, his fingers on her collarbone, her arms around his neck, and then she was clasping tightly at his hair, electricity running up her spine, fire burning her insides, her body over him.

She pulled her head back:

"Don't do this", she asked. They shouldn't. Her rational mind told her that everything about that was a bad idea: he was recovering from surgery, she was unsure about their relationship; both were in vulnerable, unstable moments in their lives. And that, _that_ wasn't the answer. Selina knew it – she had been through similar situations all her life. The tension between them, all that was left unsaid. "It will just… complicate things."

"It doesn't have to be complicated", he whispered, his fingers gently tracing her jaw line, lowering from her neck to her chest, waist, hips. "It has to be about _us_. Nothing else."

"I wish… oh, Bruce, I really wish we could leave everything outside… away from us."

"That's _all_ I wanna do", he muttered.

He didn't wait for an answer, even for a gesture of permission. He loosed the sling that kept his left arm immobile, a brief groan of pain as he roughly moved it off his neck and threw it behind the sofa. Then, both his hands on her thighs, her legs around him, he enlaced her waist and brought her even closer to him: chest against chest, mouth on mouth, racing breaths and pounding hearts.

He untied her robe, urgency in every gesture, but this: he took a moment to admire her.

"You're so beautiful", he said.

His hand caressed her neck and shoulder, gently explored her breasts. She watched him in silence, his smooth, pleasant touch, his attentive, desiring eyes.

"Look at me", she demanded, her tone more dictatorial than she had first meant to sound. Still, he obeyed – and she liked it. "This", she stated, her eyes on his, his head held in place by her firm hands, "doesn't mean anything, hear me?"

He tried to kiss her again, but she didn't allow it. She forced his head back, a low growl coming from the back of his throat as he battled the pain and the desire that urged him to shift position. "I'm not yours", Selina declared, "and I know you're not mine."

They exchanged glances, and for a moment she believed he would say something – agree, disagree, she had no idea what, but she discovered that she actually wanted that. _Tell me_, she envisioned herself saying it, _tell me I'm wrong_.

He said nothing.

Now she was the one on the lead again.

* * *

_I'm not yours, and I know you're not mine._

The words were burned into his mind, like was the sight of her naked body on top of him, or the feeling of her soft tongue, or his touch on her fresh, smooth skin.

And maybe she was right. Maybe they shouldn't take that step just yet.

She had wanted to talk, and all he had wanted was her. She had things to say, but he wasn't sure he could listen. He had heard it before, he had heard enough. He had endured the disapproval of his own reason. _She's Catwoman_, some part of him would say, _she's a criminal. A thief. She's not to be trusted…_

His hands would tell him differently. His all five senses, that were now engaging her in every way possible: he touched, and watched, listened and tasted, smelled… he was inebriated by her scent, he shivered in delight as he heard her muffled moan of pleasure as his lips pressed around her nipple, her long nails grazing his nape when his tongue tasted the soft skin, and she spoke by his ear:

"I can't give you more than this…"

He knew that. But he wasn't looking for redemption, not anymore. Not for her, or even him.

But he wanted what she could give him now. That, he would take.

She was the one that unbuttoned his pants, and he took comfort in the thought that, maybe, he hadn't forced her into anything. When she lead him inside her, eyes closed and a soft, prolonged groan of pleasure and release, he told himself that she must have been wanting that as much as he did. She had to, because it was the best feeling in the world.

And ever so gently, she moved.

Her flushed cheeks, dark hair falling around her face, lips slighted parted, and her body moving in a silent rhythm, a music that was theirs to share. That beautiful, gorgeous woman, and he reached for her:

"Selina", he called.

There she was. Suddenly now kissing him again, biting his lower lip, burying her nails in his scalp as she grabbed portions of his hair to force his mouth on hers. He complied: his right hand trailed the long way down her spine, halting on her lower back and then pulling her closer and deeper, deeper than he ever imagine she would allow.

She moaned, head back, neck exposed, eyes fiercely shut. And her body trembled, her hands grabbing the sofa on his back, her face then finding shelter on the curve of his neck.

And inside her, he came. A sudden release and a rush of pleasure, all self-control and self-awareness gone, nothing but the physical sensation of pure joy and relief. He too felt his body momentarily shake out of control, dizziness and his vision blackening out…

When it was all gone, he finally allowed himself to feel pain.

* * *

"Are you okay?", Selina asked, struggling to find the usual rhythm of her breathe.

He groaned, and now it wasn't from pleasure.

"My… shoulder."

She chuckled. "I told you it was too soon."

He finally opened his eyes, smiling at her. "Not too soon." He used his good hand to move a good portion of long dark locks away from her face.

"No regrets", she stated in seriousness.

"Never."

She moved to seat on the couch, next to him. "You need to rest."

He nodded in agreement.

"Let's go to bed, then."

* * *

He woke up several hours later. Outside, it was night.

"Hi", she greeted.

Selina was fully dressed, in a silk shirt and jeans. She even had her boots on.

"Going somewhere?" He slowly sat on the bed, and she approached him offering a glass of water and a few pills.

"Found them in your coat. You have to take them, don't you?"

"Yes." He took them in pairs, Selina joining him by seating on the edge of the mattress and watching as he finished the water.

"I called Alfred."

"Why?"

"He's coming to drive you home."

"I don't need to go home yet."

"Yes, you do."

She looked away from him, glancing at her window and the balcony beyond it. "I was right, you know", she spoke quietly, almost like she didn't want him to actually hear it. "We're not ready."

"Selina… What is it that you want, exactly?" He was unable to avoid the impatience in his tone. "That I tell you that it doesn't matter who you are, who you _were_, what you did…? I can do that, Selina. I don't _care_, and I'm not judging you… I won't."

"It's not the past that bothers me, Bruce…!" She sighed. "No, scratch that… it's not true. But, still, that's not the real problem…"

"Then what is?"

"It's who we're going to be."

He was puzzled, and he didn't mind showing it:

"I can give you no guarantees, but…"

"I'm a _thief_, Bruce!" Again she stared at him, frowning in anger. "You are Batman…! Don't you see a problem with this picture?"

"I told you, I don't care who you were…"

"Who I _am_! Not _were_, I _am_ Catwoman."

"Are you trying to tell me that…" He hesitated for a moment. And then: "Are you saying that you plan to keep _stealing_, is that it?"

She didn't answer.

"Selina." His tone was grave, his expression severe. "I can't… I _won't_ allow a criminal to run loose in Gotham. If you make this choice…"

It was his turn to be without words.

"What Bruce?" Her tone was defiant. "If I steal again, what will you do?"

"Don't do this. Don't cross this line."

"Or what?"

"You know what. You know I'll have to stop you."

She had a sly smile in her features. "We'll see."

"That's not funny, Selina."

He left the bed and collected the rest of his clothes, dressing himself while speaking:

"The offer I made the other night still goes: bring me the crown, and we can work together to find out who's after us."

"And if I don't…"

He stared at her in silence. Then, without a word, he took his things and left the room.

"Good bye, Bruce", she muttered to the emptiness of her room. "See you around."


	14. Quotes

Tommy Elliot loved Aristotle and knew most of his work by heart. In his youth, colleagues in college would tease him saying he spoke only by quoting, never using his own words… and they weren't so far from the truth. Aristotle really was a genius, and had written about everything – or at least everything that mattered -, so why would he try to put in words something that a brighter man had already said better, thousands of years ago?

Time taught him that people didn't always appreciate the wisdom in the Greek philosopher's words, and Elliot had since tried to avoid bringing up Aristotle's valuable teachings among the ignorant mongrels that usually surrounded him. That didn't stop him from thinking about an appropriate quote for every situation, even if he didn't voice it in public. So often that happened that Tommy had formed the habit of, every night before going to bed, writing those quotes in his diary, usually followed by a brief description of what had brought the thought to mind. In the years since he had begun doing that, he had already filled several notebooks, that he kept neatly organized in an old chest in his bedroom. He was proud of his collection: one day, he believed, someone would find those notebooks, and learn a great deal with them.

Except that, in the last few months, something was not quite right.

It had started when he figured out about Bruce, and he being Batman. Ever since then, he hadn't been able to concentrate as before. Now, when he sat to write in his diary, he usually produced scattered, disconnected words, and random phrases. He draw, he draw a lot, but never something that actual made any sense: mostly human limbs and organs torn apart, bloody, sick. Pieces of flesh and expressions of terror in brutalized female faces.

The last few nights, it was even worst: he had managed to write nothing but the same thing over and over, almost two hundred pages covered by one sentence, and one sentence only:

_He who has truly overcome his fears will truly be free. _

"_At least"_, he had thought, _"it's a quote." _

The insistent thought disturbed him for hours even after he had spend the whole night writing it down, and he decided he needed a distraction, something to amuse his diligent mind.

It was a Saturday morning, and he drove to Wayne Manor.

All the way he kept wondering, picturing how he would be welcomed, if he would even be allowed to see Bruce himself. It had been over a week since his old friend was discharged from the hospital, and Tommy had been following the newspapers with interest, trying to see a sign that Batman was already back into action. His medical knowledge would tell him that it was too soon for that, but Bruce was one crazy son of a bitch, and it would be typical of his friend to jump into his nightly adventures way sooner than expected.

He announced himself at the main gate and was given passage to park his convertible close to the main entrance. There were no other cars in sight, and he figured that popular Bruce Wayne had decided to convalescence in solitude. No surprise there. He went to the front door in calm, confident steps, hands in his pockets, a broad smile in his features. As he reached the entrance, he prepared to ring the bell, but didn't have to: the door opened to reveal an unusually unsympathetic Alfred staring at him.

"Hey, Alf!" Tommy greeted him as he always had, removing his sunglasses and patting the butler's shoulder. "Is Bruce home?"

"He is, Doctor Elliot." Alfred's tone was more enigmatic than Tommy would have wished for, but the fact that he had allowed him to enter the house was seen by Elliot as a good sign – oh, well, at least as not a horrible sign. "He's at the library."

"The library? Not reading, I hope… that would be something new."

"No, sir." The butler's voice was cold and impersonal. "He's already waiting for you."

"Okay", he answered, trying to hide his sudden discomfort. He walked to the library in a quick pace, barely aware that Alfred had stopped following him at some point, letting him enter the library alone.

Tommy remembered that room quite well, the one place he and Bruce had spend many days in their childhood. The late Thomas Wayne would give permission for the boys to play with his chess set and go through the books, built forts with the sofa's cushions, even use his stereo to listen to had heard that the whole Manor and all inside it had been destroyed in the fire, a couple years ago, but he had to do Bruce justice: he had managed to rebuild it just as it was in their childhood. Even the books looked the same.

Even the chess set.

"Tommy", he heard Bruce's voice coming from behind him. He turned to look at his old friend.

"Bruce, hello. Didn't see you there." He offered his hand for a hand shake. "How you feeling, buddy? You look much better."

Bruce kept his own arms crossed, silently standing between Tommy and the door.

"I saw you at the hospital when you were in the ICU. Did Alfred mention that? You had a spectacular recovery, I'm sure your doctors told you that… they are close friends of mine, the surgeons that operated on you, and…"

"Shut up", Bruce said, his voice a harsh, husky sound.

Tommy chuckled, pretending to be confused. "I'm… I'm sorry… what? Did I miss something…?"

It was very sudden: in a flash Bruce had covered the ground between them, and had grabbed Tommy by his collar. Elliot even tried to offer resistance to that, but it was too late; recently operated and all, Bruce had managed to threw a man that was at least his own size and weight over the sofa that was ten feet behind them, making Tommy grunt and pant in pain when his back hit the hard floor.

"Damn it…!" He wasn't able to move for a moment, his entire body aching and his head dizzy, darkness engulfing his vision. "Holly… shit…!"

He felt hands on both his shoulders, and then he was again brutally moved, tossed from the floor to land over the coffee table. He screamed in pain once again:

"What… the… fuck! Why the… hell…?"

"Shut. Up." It was Bruce again, and again in a ruthless, hoarse voice.

Tommy complied, moaning shamelessly. Bruce's face was close to his, too close, his dark blue eyes darting in rage, his expression showing lots of fury and no mercy. Again he had the hold of Elliot's collar, grabbing his shirt in such fierceness that Tommy felt the fabric press his trachea, almost no air passing to his lungs.

"Listen to me", Bruce said in a threatening whisper. Unable to do much else, Tommy obeyed. "If you _ever_ go near Selina Kyle again, _Tommy_… I swear to God… You'll regret it. I'll _make_ you regret it… I'll make you wish you were never born…"

He slightly loosed the grip on Elliot's neck, allowing his to gasp and talk:

"Bru… Bruce…" He held both hands above his head, showing his vulnerability. "Bruce… you… you got it… all… wrong…"

"I know what you did!" He slammed Tommy's back against the table once again. "I know what you did to her, you _bastard_!"

_To hell with it_, Tommy thought. To hell. There he was, in a miserable situation – the least he could do was to try to turn it against his aggressor.

When air was violently forced out of his lungs, when his sight was again a spinning wheel of senseless images, he simply closed his eyes and took it, Bruce's rage. To his own surprise, as he was shaken and brutalize, he heard himself laugh.

And that had an effect on Bruce.

"Shut up, Tommy. Shut up, shut… up!"

He felt the heavy fist suddenly crashing on his jaw, an immediate flow of warm blood drowning his mouth. Two teeth loosen and scratching his tongue, a burning pain crossing his skull. Above him, Bruce wasn't just furious.

He was scared.

"Stop laughing", he said through clenched teeth. "Stop it!"

"You… you fucking hit me, Bruce…" He laughed and gasped, laughed and spit. "I can't believe… you fucking _punched me_ in the face…!"

It was like he had just asked for it: another hit, now straight to his nose. It was a hollow, brief sound, the dry thud of bone against bone, and a sharp pain that went up through his nostrils all the way to his brain, followed by a red river of blood that went over his mouth and chin, ran to his neck and soaked his shirt.

"Stop laughing!" Bruce roared and grabbed him, now tossing him over the sofa like he was a ragdoll.

"Master Bruce!"

It was Alfred, standing at the entrance, a shocked expression in his features.

That affected Bruce: he had been about to punch Tommy again, a blind rage in his eyes. At Alfred's words, however, he had halted and taken a deep breath, now merely watching Thomas Elliot while recovering his breath.

"Al… Alfie…" Tommy raised a hand to his nose and groaned, then chuckling again. "Oh, Al… I… I think Bruce is… trying… to kill me."

"Please, be quiet, Dr. Elliot." The butler had now approached Bruce, who had taken a step back from him. "Sir…? I think that's enough, sir."

Tommy found a handkerchief in his pocket, and placed it directly over his nostrils. "You broke my fucking nose, Bruce…"

"That's what you deserve, coward."

"Ha. Yeah, I suppose I do. For trying to take from Selina what she was so obviously offering for so long…"

He saw how Bruce was on the verge of jumping over him again, fists clenched and raging eyes. He provoked him:

"I guess I didn't get the chance of going through it 'til the end, but I had a good sample… I swear, when I put my fingers inside her she was as wet as she could be, and I had a good feel of her tits, and her nipples were so hard that…"

Bruce advanced towards him, but Alfred placed himself between them. "_Sir_! Dr. Elliot wants nothing else but to see you lose your composure! _Please_, do not give him the pleasure."

Tommy sat on the couch, regaining his balance and spitting blood and pieces of his teeth all over the rug. "Ha… okay, Alfie, I think we can agree that… Bruce's 'composure' is far gone… ha…"

"Get _out_!" Bruce snarled. "Get out, Tommy, and _never_ come back! And if you ever touch Selina, or any other woman again, I'll beat you to a _pulp_, hear me?"

Tommy said nothing and just smiled - a bloody, strange red smile. Nevertheless, he managed to stand, and slowly walked outside the room, not without glancing back over his shoulder and looking one last time at his now former friend.

He imagined that Bruce was perhaps wondering if that was the last he heard of Tommy Elliot. That wasn't the case, of course; things had just gotten interesting once again.

Privately, he thanked Bruce: who would have guessed that a good beating was all that would take to clear his mind of that obsessive phrase? Now he could think clearly again…

And had no lack of ideas to work on.

* * *

Bruce allowed his body to heavily land on the sofa, a grunt of pain escaping his lips as he finally leaned on the couch.

"Master Bruce", Alfred said, "you shouldn't have done that."

He didn't answer.

"Let me take a look at your hands."

Bruce lowered his gaze to his bloody knuckles. "It's fine, Alfred… that's not my blood."

"I'm not so sure."

He pondered that maybe Alfred was right: he had been out of action for a while, perhaps enough to soften the skin of his knuckles. He was also disgusted by the thought of his blood mixed with Tommy's, an undesired blood-pact with a person that he now deeply despised.

"Any pain in your shoulder, chest…?", Alfred asked, pointing to his most recently wound.

Yes, he felt pain. There, where he had a barely healed scar, and all over his back, and neck, and arms. It had been weeks since he had been put himself in such a physically – and emotionally – extenuating circumstance. Now, he was dealing with its consequences.

And had no regrets, by the way.

"No, I'm fine, Alfred…"

He _was_ fine. There was pain, sure, but that was alright. The lack of pain, that was a strange feeling for him; now, to feel his body throb and ache, the rush of adrenaline, his muscles forced to their limits… that was familiar. That, he enjoyed.

"Your pulse is stable and fairly low, all things considered", the butler commented.

"Alfred… I'm not the one that got hurt."

"Yes, I'm aware of that, sir." He frowned. "And as much as I understand that Dr. Elliot probably _deserved_ what you gave him, I dare say you crossed a line."

"What' you talking about?"

"You told me you would just _talk_ to him, sir."

A snort of despise was Bruce's answer.

"Maybe I was a fool for believing you, Master Bruce, but I did. Don't worry; I've learned my lesson…"

"No, no, you're not…" He nodded in silent denial, then speaking in a gentler tone. "I didn't mean to lie to you, Alfred… Honestly. Things got out of control, that's all."

"Out of control?"

Bruce quietly stared at the library, furniture scattered and blood stains over the floor. "At some point, Alfred… I think that Tommy was _enjoying_ being punched. And that, that… that's too much like…"

He halted. It was so strange; to this day, he wasn't able to say it: his name, his alias, the name of that awful, awful man.

"Like the Joker?" Alfred didn't share his restrictions.

"Yes. Like _him_."

"Fortunately enough, I think it's fair to say that _no one_ is quite like the Joker, that dreadful man."

"Yes. I guess not."

Alfred looked around the room, taking a deep breath. "I suppose you didn't take into consideration the trouble that would be to clean this place up when you were finished teaching Thomas Elliot a lesson, did you?"

Bruce chuckled. "It crossed my mind, believe or not."

"I would give you a broom right now if you were in better shape. But you need to clean yourself and rest for a while – doctor's orders."

"Well, I guess I have to be a good patient and do as told."

"Yes. Besides, you'll have guests later – Miss Head called and would like to pay you a visit."

"Oh", was Bruce's only word.

"Your enthusiasm is contagious. I'm sure that Miss Head will be pleased to know how much you are looking forward to her visit."

The sarcasm in Alfred's remark was palpable, but Bruce ignored it. "Wake me up when Talia gets here", he asked while walking out of the library.

He wondered if Alfred's keen observation wasn't something for him to consider, though. Talia had been visiting him in Wayne Manor almost every day, and her interest had long surpassed the appearances of simple friendship. And even though he didn't necessarily look forward to see her every day, he certainly enjoyed her company. She was an intelligent, talkative woman, a successful business person and surprisingly modest. And the fact that she was a beautiful woman hadn't passed unnoticed to him.

If things were different, perhaps he would have welcomed her attention; right now, however, he admitted he was having difficulty to open himself to the advances of other women. Not until Selina remained, one way or the other, in his life…

Though he wouldn't be able to actually tell where they stood right now in terms of a _relationship_. They hadn't spoken ever since the day they had had sex, neither as Bruce and Selina nor as Batman and Catwoman. He hoped she would make contact, even if it was just to talk, but that hadn't happen… and he still feared that she was serious about going back to her old ways, back to her life as Catwoman, the thief.

And now, all that problem with Tommy Elliot. He had wanted to deal with his former friend and what he had done to Selina since the night he discovered it, but now he had to agree with Alfred: maybe he went too far. Maybe he had pushed Tommy over the edge, and who knew if he was the kind of man that would take out his frustration in another target?

Oh, yes, Tommy was definitely that man…

Bruce feared for Selina. He had been battling the impulse of calling her for over a week now, but he discovered that, maybe, it was a good moment to swallow his pride and actually do what he had been wanting to for days.

* * *

Selina was in her little office in her store, reading a very boring account report, when her cell phone rang. She tossed the papers away, glad to have a good excuse to do it, but her happiness was brief: she recognized the number that was flashing in the screen immediately.

_Bruce._

For a moment she considered the option of not answering. That would make everything simpler. On the other hand, he wasn't someone she could so easily ignore – if the man who was Batman wanted to talk to her, he would… one way or the other.

Admittedly, she had been kind of wishing for that to happen. As adamant as she was about not getting involved with Bruce right now, about wanting to figure out her own life before considering professional or love alliances, she missed him too goddamned much. There was a part of her that would be happy to just let go and embrace it, that new life he proposed, where they could be together and forget about the world outside. But that, of course, was nothing but a silly dream, possible only for simpler people. Not for people like them, not for someone like _her_, that now mused about her next professional step, and that included a whole amount of acrobatic skills and law breaking, and a bunch of other things Bruce wouldn't approve…

So, yeah, maybe she would take the phone call… but she wasn't expecting anything good from that.

"Hello?"

"Selina."

His voice was a grave, hoarse sound – he was hesitant about that as much as she was, it seemed.

"Hey", she muttered, realizing that should have been almost inaudible to him.

"I'm not sure this is okay… if it's okay that I'm calling you like that."

"It's a free country", she teased. And then, in a kinder tone: "I'll consider us friends until the day you give me reason to think differently."

He said nothing for a moment, and so did she. Then, he spoke:

"Tommy came over today."

"Did he?" She had not thought about Thomas Elliot in a while, but now that she did, the cold anger and the feeling of repugnance returned at full potency. "You know, Bruce, I really don't want to talk about him. He's…"

"I know what he did, Selina."

_You do?_ She hadn't wanted to bring up the subject the last time they met. Tommy Elliot was catalogued in her mind as an unfinished business, and she planned to take care of him as soon as she had the chance. But after all that had happened in the last few weeks, with even the police involved, she had had to keep a low profile, and the payback she had planned for Dr. Elliot would attract too much attention. For now, she just had to live with that – staring at her front door and picturing that night, imagining when she would have the chance of finally giving Dr. Elliot what he deserved for what he had done to her and, no doubt, to other women before. Until then, she would rather not think about him.

"That night… I was looking for you. I was trying to find you, because I had been at your place, and I saw… well, I figured something had happened." Bruce kept talking, and Selina was grateful for that. "And it was Tommy. I knew he had…"

"Tried to attack me. Yeah." She closed her eyes, trying as hard as she could to block the many images of that moment from flooding her mind.

"Right." She heard as he sighed heavily on the other side of the line. "I've told him to stay away from you."

"Bruce…" _Damn it, Bruce!_ Selina could have figured he would do something like that if he knew what Elliot had done. And even though she understood it was his way of trying to help her, she couldn't ignore the anger she suddenly felt – because that was _her_ problem to deal with, not his.

"He won't cause you trouble anymore, I promise."

"I wasn't worried before, Bruce! Oh, my God…"

Again there was silence between them, this time broken by her:

"I hate to say this, but you shouldn't have done that." She was making her best to keep her tone calm and collected.

"And why is that?"

"Because…" She thought for a second, unsure if she should proceed. Then again, maybe there weren't many ways things could get worst. "Because he knows about me, Bruce."

"What do you mean?"

"About, you know… about my _night_ job…?"

Silence.

"Bruce?"

Silence.

"Bruce, please. Say something."

When he did, his tone was harsh.

"And how did he figure that out?"

"I don't have the slightest idea."

Once again he didn't answer her. She asked:

"Did you talk to him? Did he say something about me?"

He cleared his throat before speaking:

"Our conversation was… brief."

"You _beat_ him, didn't you?" She bit her lower lip. "Jesus, what's the matter with you? You just can't stop, can you? Even out of your goddamned uniform you have to play the hero, don't you?"

"He _attacked_ you, Selina! Was I supposed to just pretend nothing had happened?"

"Yes! That's what normal people _do_! I can stand up for myself, I _don't_ need someone to save me!"

"I'm not trying to save you, I just… It was something I had to do." He sounded frustrated. She still didn't intend to make it easy for him:

"You _had to_? Oh, I see… it's some kind of revenge, then? Or your cute way of saying no one can mess with me because I'm _yours_?"

"Don't worry", he drily said, "I know you're not _mine_. I know you don't want to have anything to do with me."

She took a moment before answering to that. Then:

"No. No, I didn't mean it like that."

"I'm sorry, Selina", he apologized, even though his tone denounced how hurt he had been by her words. "I really am. But don't ever expect me to quietly watch when something like what Tommy did happens. That's not me. It will never be."

"I know", she whispered. It occurred to her that maybe she had a few things to apologize for also, but it was too late.

"Goodbye", he said, hanging up on her without waiting for any response.

* * *

Bruce had barely placed his cell phone back in his pocket when he heard her voice behind him:

"Ahm… Bruce?"

She was standing just a few feet from him, alone in the long corridor that led to the master bedroom.

"Oh, hi, Talia…" He greeted. "Were you…?"

"I'm so sorry", she quickly said, seeming deeply embarrassed. "I… I shouldn't have let myself in like this… It's just that Alfred wasn't around, and the door was unlocked, so I just…"

"It's fine", he said. "This is… well, it's no big deal. I was just talking to a friend."

"I noticed", she murmured.

He frowned. "I don't know how much you heard, but…"

"Not much. Just the 'I know you don't want to have anything to do with me' part, and something about a Tommy." She smiled faintly. "_Too_ much, right?"

"I hope you don't mind if we don't talk about it", he asked.

"No, no… I…" She was actually flushing. "Look, why don't we change the subject?"

"That would be nice."

She looked around the room, the generous suite that had once been his parents' bedroom, now his own. "Never been here before… it's your room, right?"

He nodded. "Yes. I don't usually invite anyone here, but…"

"I guess I invited myself, so, technically, your rule still goes."

"I wouldn't say it's a _rule_…", he chuckled. "Do you honestly take me as the eccentric playboy the social columns make fun of?"

"I don't. Though you do have your eccentricities."

Walking around the room Talia examined pictures and objects, stopping to admire the old Indian arrow tip Bruce kept in a small glass dome.

"What's this?" She leaned forward to take a closer look at it.

"Something from my childhood", he said, unwilling to explain more. Talia briefly stared at him inquisitively, but said nothing.

Then she found his parent's picture, one taken not long before they were shot. In it, his father portrayed his characteristically gentle smile, that always reminded Bruce how he didn't inherited his father's goodness or his serenity. Next to Thomas Wayne, his wife Martha, Bruce's mother: sweet and beautiful, and that's how he would always remember her. He didn't have many pictures left of his parents, especially after the fire a couple years ago, but he was glad that he had been able to reprint that one – both his parents looked so happy and peaceful, and he was glad that he could, every now and then, get a glimpse of their smiles before finally going to bed.

"Your parents", Talia said, holding the picture in her hands.

"Yes."

"Were they really that happy?", she asked in a soft voice, eyes fixed in their cheerful features.

"Most of the time they were, I guess." He took the picture frame from her hands, briefly looking at it before placing it back where it was.

"You must miss them a lot." Now Talia stared at him in a mix of pity and curiosity.

"I got used to not having them around", he shrugged.

"No", she stubbornly insisted, "I don't think so. No one gets used to something like this."

"You would be surprised."

She placed herself in his path, reaching for his hand. Raising it to her face, she gently kissed his palm. "Not by you", she said. "I _get_ you, Bruce… I know you…"

He pulled his hand from her grasp. "Talia… no."

She looked straight into his eyes, her face an inscrutable mask. "Ah… 'I know you don't want to have anything to do with me', right? The irony…"

He opened his mouth speak, but nothing came; in the end, he concluded, there wasn't much he could say.

"Maybe I should go", Talia said. "No need to point me the exit… I think I can find my way around."

"Talia", he called. She ignored him, though, and kept marching down the hall.

Bruce followed her, finally taking hold of her arm before she could go down the stairs. "Talia, wait."

"It's alright, Bruce", she said. Her features were surprisingly unruffled. "I can see you have something… _someone_ else in your mind right now. And maybe that's for the best. As much as I like you, I'm not so sure we would be right for each other."

"What if I tell you", he said, "that I don't believe in such a thing as soul mates?"

"I would say you're wrong", she murmured, "because _I_ do believe it."

Standing on the tip of her toes, she placed a light kiss over his lips. "And if you open your eyes, Bruce, you'll see that happiness is much closer to you than you can imagine."

Smiling mischievously, she left him there to watch her go.


	15. Vantage Point

"Tea, Selina?"

It was Leslie Thompkins speaking, standing next to her with a pot of hot water in her hands.

"Yes, please."

They were in Leslie's living room that Friday morning, Selina stopping by the house before going to work. It was a habit developed in the last few weeks, when Selina found herself taken by an unusual feeling of loneliness. She was more than familiar with being alone, having spent most of her life like that; she had rarely felt lonely, though. But she discovered that, in the last month or so, something had changed. Perhaps it was the fact that she was still agonizing over what had happened between Bruce and her, or maybe it was because that was Gotham, and Gotham had always been the one place she thought as _home_ – a shitty home, no doubt, but still home -, but she had experimented the strange feeling of arriving at home every night, looking around it and thinking that the place was… empty.

That's why she had returned to her costume and night life, and that was why, without needing to provide much explanation, she knocked on Leslie's door almost every morning. For tea or coffee, sometimes food, and always for a good talk.

"How was your night?" Leslie was a very straightforward person, Selina had recently discovered. What she needed or wanted to know, she would ask.

"Okay, I guess", Selina answered, her eyes watching the tea she had yet to drink.

"I heard rumors about a female vigilante walking over Old Town rooftops and teaching gang members a lesson… You wouldn't know anything about it, would you?"

Selina averted the old lady's inquisitive gaze. "Who's that crowd you've been hanging with, Leslie? Rumors from Old Town… it can't be good people."

Leslie smiled. "Oh, you know better than I do that there are many good folks in that part of the city… Unfortunately, with no one to look out for them – until now, of course."

"I've no idea what you're talking about, but I'm sure you're right."

Leslie's kind smile brought sadness to Selina's heart. She was right, of course; it had been Catwoman that had been prowling over Old Town's gangs, but her initial intentions were not as noble as Leslie seemed to believe. She had been visiting one of her "fences", a man that, Selina thought, could help her sell a few things in the black market. She had been trying to get some money, real cash, so she would be ready if she had to suddenly leave Gotham. It was just as she was leaving the man's office that she witnessed five or six low life thugs going after two young girls, certainly with bad intentions in mind – she didn't hesitate to attack.

"Your friend, the Batman, hasn't been around lately, it seems…"

"He's _not_ my friend, Leslie, I assure you."

"Well, regardless… I read in the papers that he has not been seen for almost a month, now."

"Maybe he's dead", Selina bluntly said. "It happens to people that try to play hero in a place like this."

Leslie frowned. "You're not serious…"

She nodded her head, irritated at herself for her own reaction. "No… No, I'm not. Look, I'm not _friends_ with the Bat, or anything, but there's word in the streets that Batman has been seen. Two nights ago, someone said, he burned down a meth house."

"Really?"

"Yeah", she reassured, "really."

And that was indeed the truth – Gotham's criminal world had been in bliss for a few weeks, but now the game was over. She had heard about the meth house, and at least two different sources had confirmed it: Batman was back.

And she didn't know what that meant to her; good news or bad news?

"I hope he does something about those awful murders…"

"Murders?" That picked her interest. "You mean the girls that were tortured and killed… bodies found close to their houses later?"

Gotham papers had been all about those murders for months and months, obsessed with the idea of a serial killer in town.

"Well, that too. But I haven't heard about one of those in a while, now…"

"Yeah, me too. Figured the guy had moved out of Gotham, or maybe had been arrested for some other crime."

"He wasn't the only women killer out there, I assure you. In the last few weeks, three young girls have been murder, their bodies found in _pieces_, Selina. Literally."

"I didn't hear anything about that."

"Oh, you know how things are. When we are talking about middle class girls, from nice neighborhoods, the papers make a fuss… but when the victims are strippers or hookers… no one really bothers to write about it."

Selina thought about that: abandoned prostitutes that had no one to even pay for their funeral? Yeah, she knew that reality too well.

"And how did _you_ hear about it, Leslie?"

"One of the victims had a little girl, and guess where she ended up?" She used a spoon to stir her tea, a thoughtful expression as she stared at the wall behind Selina.

"An orphan girl…"

"You should have seen her, Selina… The sweetest thing, blond like and angel, big blue eyes… but it doesn't take a minute talking to her for you to realize that the girl has seen things most of us can't even phantom. It's a sad, sad thing."

Selina sighed, raising from the chair and taking her purse. "It's a hard world, Leslie. And there are always people that get the worst of it. Even kids – especially kids."

"I'm sorry to say, but you're right." She followed Selina to the front door, unlocking it for her. "Are you going to stop by the Home this afternoon?"

Selina thought for a moment; and then:

"I'm kind of busy, but I think I'll be able to make it."

"Oh, I hope so… the girls have been asking for you."

Selina leaned to briefly hug the old lady.

"See you later, Leslie."

"Bye, Selina… have a nice day."

She waved Leslie goodbye, privately thinking that, after their conversation, her day would be anything but nice.

* * *

Bruce took the elevator from the cave and back to the mansion, taking a break from work. It was probably the first time he did it in the last three days, except for a few hours of sleep here and there. There was much to do: Batman was back to Gotham's streets, and there was no lack of work. A few weeks of his absence had done damage enough.

Things weren't as bad as they once were, admittedly, with the organized crime in the city dismantled and its bosses rotting in jail, most of them for life. But Gotham was like any big city, and there were always those that wanted nothing but an opportunity to think bigger and get bolder. Those were the guys that had taken advantage of his brief disappearance, and those were now his primary targets; he had to make it known to all: Gotham belonged to Batman, and that couldn't be changed.

He had had three very eventful nights so far, going from one side of town to the other, beating up thugs like a machine, terrorizing the wanna-be crime bosses to the point they now referred to him as "Demon-Bat". And all that was good, even necessary, but he also didn't want to forget what he considered one very important question: who had hired Deathstroke to kill him.

And Catwoman, of course, though now he was almost a hundred per cent sure that Selina had been collateral damage, at first, and now had become a way of getting to him. Which was why he hadn't, so far, made any efforts to approach Catwoman again – or so he told himself.

He had been waiting for a move from her part, and he was convinced that, after his return to Batman's activities, she would go to him. She had to; all that talk about going back to stealing… she couldn't be serious about it.

Could she?

Now that he hadn't had any sign of her for three nights already, he was starting to worry. He knew for a fact – because he had been abusing his surveillance equipment and most of his informants – that Catwoman was very much in activity, going around Gotham trying to make some serious cash and even buying gadgets. The behavior of someone that is planning something big, perhaps followed by a strategic escape. And she was clearly avoiding him, staying as far away as possible from his more obvious targets, keeping her distance from his safe-house in downtown.

He only took comfort in the thought that, perhaps, the fact they were not being seen together could lead the person after them to focus in just one target – Batman, he hoped. It was a long shot, but if Deathstroke was in fact dead, who could testify to an alliance between Catwoman and Batman?

The fact was, though, that there was no better way to solve that problem than actually getting the person who was after them. And that was the reason Bruce would, every night after patrol, remain at his computer collecting data and researching, trying to find out all he could about his best clue so far: Deathstroke.

He had spent most of his morning down there, in the cave, and his work had not been fruitless. He now had collected thousands of pages of information about the man known as Slade Wilson and the hundreds of murders he executed for money, and was half-way through the file when Alfred called him on the radio.

"Master Bruce?"

"Yes, Alfred." He hadn't turned from the screen, and was barely paying attention to the butler.

"We have a visitor at the gate."

"Send him away, Alfred."

There was a moment of hesitance. Then, the butler insisted:

"It's Miss Talia, Master Bruce."

Bruce closed his eyes and rubbed them with his fingers. _Talia_.

He was now in what he could loosely describe as a relationship with Talia Head. They were taking it slowly, which was the only way he had always been able to take these things, but there was definitely something happening there. She would come over often, and he had been at her suite at the Grand half a dozen times. Every now and then they would have dinner together – ever so discreetly, since Bruce wasn't ready to be officially dating anyone yet -, and Bruce had brought her as his date in an inauguration he had attended for Wayne Enterprises. They had kissed. Held hands. Even gone a little farther than that. But Talia had been the first to warn him. _"I'm not willing to share a bed with a man that won't be thinking about me when we are together"_, she had declared, "_You'll have me when I'm all that you want"._ And he hadn't been able to deny that, when he was with Talia, even though they had fun together, and he honestly cared for, she wasn't the only woman in her mind.

"Let her in, Alfred", he conceded.

He thanked the fact he had already taken a shower and changed, and all he had to actually do was go up to the mansion. There was no doubt he was exhausted, and would like nothing more than to spend his afternoon sleeping for a while, but he had appearances to keep. That, and he had been avoiding Talia for a few days already. More of that and she would find another man to take her out to dinner – candidates to do it was something she had no lack of.

They reached the living room almost simultaneously, with her greeting him by smiling and cheerfully enlacing his neck, then kissing him passionately. "Oh, hello, good looking", she said, "long time no see."

He took her hand in his, tangling her fingers between his. "Yes, I'm sorry about that… I've been working in a project, have been confined in my office."

"So Alfred told me. And what is this project, so important you can't even make time for me?"

"Something Wayne Enterprises is working with the US Army… confidential, as you may already know." He smiled. "Pretty boring stuff."

She rested her head on his chest – Talia was like that, always so caring, and seemed so comfortable with physical contact. "Then maybe I could bore you even more by telling you about my meeting with the pretentious lawyers that are trying to buy part of one of my father's companies… How about over lunch?"

"I don't know, sweetheart, I think I need to rest… Have barely been able to sleep last night."

"Oh, Bruce… Don't you know anything about women? Are all those girls that used to walk around you so easy they never bothered telling you a woman hates when a man ditches her to _sleep_?"

She was right about that: those women had never taught him anything.

"Besides", she insisted, "I'll be out of town the whole weekend… Don't I deserve at least one brief meal with my almost-boyfriend?"

He hesitated, but realized there wasn't a good way of doing that: either he would hurt Talia's feelings or try to please her and skip sleeping altogether. Neither were good options, but he went for what would cause less damage in the long run:

"Okay… Let's go. I'll just get my wallet and car keys."

She smiled joyfully, and Bruce took comfort in the thought that, considering he still had at least five hundred pages to read about Deathstroke, he wouldn't have slept anyway.

* * *

Her name was Holly Robinson, barely six years old, already had that hopeless, tired look in her eyes.

Selina knew that face: she had seen it in the streets of the Narrows, where she was born and lived most of her childhood; she had seen it in the orphanage, where she spend the most horrid months of her young life; she had seen it in the alleys and irregular streets of Old Town, where she learned how to cheat and steal. She had often seen it in mirrors, at the hardest moments of her life - her eyes reflected as dead, hollow things, the cold glance of one that doesn't believe in any goodness in the world anymore.

It was a hard place to be at, and even harder to return from.

Selina believed there was hope for Holly still; she was young enough, and that was a good thing, at least in that case. The little girl had lost her mother in a brutal, awful way, but no one had shared the details with her, of course. Ignorance, in this case, was a blessing: the person that was attacking those women was a monster. Whoever he was, he took pleasure in torturing them for hours long, and disposed of their punished bodies in several pieces, treating them worst than a butcher would deal with a cow.

Leslie had been right about the girl: she was a beautiful, frightened, quiet little creature. Had delicate blond curls that had clearly been neglected, just as the rest of her. Her thin, short arms displayed signs of old bruises and a few scars that could have been from an angry, violent grasp of someone that had long, sharp nail. Figures; as much as Selina felt sorry for the agony the dead woman had suffered, she imagine the world was probably a better place without it: Holly's mother dealt and used heroine, among other drugs, and had a long criminal record that included attempted murder and, sadly, child abuse – two other children of hers had already been placed under State care years ago.

Sat on the floor of the dormitory, Holly played with a doll Selina had just given her. It was obvious the girl wasn't used to have toys: she didn't even know exactly what to do with the thing, turning it over in her hands, watching closely every detail of the doll's clothes and hair.

"She has blond hair like you", Selina said softly. She was seating next to girl, a faint smile on her lips. No one had ever taught her how to deal with sad little children, and she hadn't the slightest clue of what to do. If that girl was anything like herself, she would much rather be left alone.

"Yeah", the girl agreed. "And a pretty red dress."

"That's right."

"And red shoes."

Selina nodded. "'Know what she doesn't have, though?"

The girl stared at her inquisitively. "What?"

"A name."

"She don't have no name?"

"Nope. No name."

The girl thought for a moment. Then:

"I think she' sad."

"Why is that?"

"_Everybody_ needs a name." Her tone denounced how obvious she considered the statement. "Right?"

"I guess."

"We do." Again she turned to look at Selina. "Mommies chose names. For babies."

"That's true." It certainly had been, in Selina's case, who had no knowledge that a father had existed to share at least _that_ responsibility with her mother. And she bet the same was true for Holly. "You know what?"

The girl watched her attentively.

"If you give her a name", she pointed at the doll, "she will be yours forever."

Something lighted up Holly's face. "Yeah?"

Again Selina nodded, her hand tenderly stroking the girl's curls.

"I like Sara", the girl declared, in the most confident tone of voice she had displayed so far into that conversation. "You like Sara?"

"I think it's a beautiful name", Selina agreed.

"Me too. It's _beautiful_", she said, trying to reproduce Selina's clear pronunciation of the word.

Selina laughed. "Well, now she'll be a friend forever… your Sara-doll."

"Not my friend… my daughter!"

"Oh, okay."

"My baby girl." She caressed the doll's head. "I'll take good care of you", she whispered close to the plastic face.

Selina was about to ask the girl if she didn't want something to eat when steps on the hall caught her attention. Then, Leslie's voice, on the other side of the door, telling someone that Holly was "the victim's child", and would stay at the Home until they found relatives. A male voice agreed, and the door of the dormitory opened, reveling Leslie and, next to her, Bruce Wayne.

If there was something adequate she could have said, Selina didn't think of it. Without moving from where she was, on the floor, she silently stared up at Bruce.

"Selina", he was more eloquent. "Hello."

She frowned. "Bruce. What are you doing here?"

"He brought an electric wheelchair for Isabella", Leslie explained.

"Wayne Enterprises' most advanced technology", he added.

"Isn't it nice of you to do that?" She didn't mean to sound so sarcastic. Leslie looked at her in slight disapproval.

Bruce seemed oblivious about her unpleasant tone. He lowered himself in one knee and spoke to Holly:

"And you must be Holly."

The girl nodded in agreement, her shyness making impossible for her to look into Bruce's eyes. He pointed at the toy in her hands:

"That's a pretty doll you got there…"

"Selina gave her to me", the girl immediately explained, smiling briefly as she did. "She's Sara. She's so _beautiful_…!"

"I can see that", Bruce agreed, laughing at the girl's cuteness. "I guess Selina chose well."

"Hm-hum", again the girl nodded.

"You know, Holly, I have something for you too", he said, reaching for his jacket's pocket.

Selina watched as he took a small box from his inside pocket, Holly's blue eyes widening as he offered her the package. In a quick move the girl grabbed the box and ripped open the paper, revealing its content: a delicate necklace. It had a silver chain and a pendant of the same material, shaped like a cat.

"Oh, that's adorable", Leslie said, unaware of the cold glance Selina had for Bruce. "Here, Holly, let me help you put it on."

"It's okay, Leslie", Selina said, already taking the delicate thing in her palm and examining it briefly. "I'll do that."

She then placed it around the girl's neck, who was bouncing in excitement. Still kneeling, Bruce watched all that in impassible silence.

"Do I look pretty?", Holly asked Selina, a broad smile illuminating her features.

"Most beautiful little girl ever", she said, hoping her eyes wouldn't betray the cheerful smile she was trying to pose. She turned to Leslie. "Leslie… do you think maybe you could take Holly…?"

"I sure do, darling." She was all smiles. "Come, Holly, let's show the other girls the wonderful gifts you got…"

Selina waited for the door to close behind them before finally turning to stare at Bruce. She found him sat on the floor, a stoic expression in his features.

"Funny place to meet", she sardonically said.

"You know why I'm here", he just declared, clearly trying to ignore her usual sarcasm.

"I thought it had something to do with a wheelchair, but I'm wrong, of course."

"You didn't think it was the wheelchair for a second." His smile was scornful.

"Right. You could have just had the thing delivered, and never had another look at that crippled little girl…"

"That", he interrupted her with an uncharacteristically angry note in his tone, "is uncalled for!"

Selina sighed. She recalled the day Bruce had been at the orphanage with her, and how he had been so kind to Isabella, carrying her around for hours, playing with her, showing so much patience. Yeah, perhaps he was right – that had been unfair.

"All right", she muttered. "I'm sorry."

Silence took the room for a few moments, sounds of children voices audible in a distant background.

"You came because of Holly", Selina affirmed, breaking the quiet tension.

"Yes", he admitted.

"Why?"

He pursed his lips. "The police thinks she saw something… something that could lead to the man that killed her mother."

"That's… no one told Leslie that."

"Yeah."

"Goddamned bastards…!" She hit the floor under her with a fist – for some reason, neither her or Bruce had gotten up. "That's screwed up, Bruce! This guy may be looking for Holly as we speak!"

"Now, calm down… we don't know that for sure. It's a possibility, that's all. They have to yet interview her… besides, the guy, if that was even him, he has no idea the girl might have seen him." He moved a few inches to get closer to her, and spoke softly. "She was home when her mother was taken, apparently. Cops think the assassin followed the woman there and took her from her apartment."

"But they don't know for sure?"

"They don't."

Selina took a deep breath. "What do _you_ think?"

He slightly moved his right eyebrow up.

"You agree, don't you?"

There was a lugubrious tone in his answer. "Everything points to that."

"Oh, no." She tilted her head back, eyes closed. She then opened them up to stare straight at the ceiling. "That's why you gave her the tracer?"

He chuckled. "You noticed."

"You're too obvious", she stated, joining him in a smile. "But why it had to be a _cat_?"

"Honestly?" He shrugged. "I don't know."

There was a knock on the door. "Bruce", a female voice called, "are you in there?"

Selina looked inquisitively at Bruce, but got no answers. He was already standing up:

"I'm here", he replied.

The door opened, and Selina was surprised to see Talia Head there, looking at them in an obnoxious manner.

"It's almost five o'clock, Bruce", the woman said, her eyes quickly examining the room around them and then resting on Selina. She smiled in a furtive, arrogant way. "Shall we go?"

He didn't answer her. Instead, he offered a hand to help Selina on her feet once again. "Talia. You remember Selina?"

"Of course." The young woman's expression changed from unpleasant to agreeable in a second. "One of St. Mary's greatest benefactors, Leslie always reminds me. Besides, we've recently met again at the hospital, Bruce; Selina was an even more assiduous visitor than I."

_Oh_, Selina mused, _that was mean. Mean, mean, mean rich girl… trying to put me in my place, are we? Showing that you won the man, and thinking that I was after him? Oh, princess, you're so far off…_

"We should go, darling." It was Talia again, one of her hands resting on Bruce's chest. "It's getting late."

"Yeah, Bruce", Selina agreed. "You should go. Why didn't you mention Talia was here, and waiting for you? I wouldn't have _kept_ _you_ for so long…"

"Don't worry, Selina." Her smile was polite, but her eyes showed disdain. "I _knew_ Bruce was here with you… He told me he had to come up here to _talk_. Wasn't that what you said, Bruce?"

He placed a hand on Talia's lower back, gently guiding her out of the room. "C'mon, Talia. I've to take you home."

"Okay", she agreed, still smiling. "Let's go home."

Talia marching ahead of him, Bruce turned. "Goodbye, Selina", he said, an apologizing expression in his face.

She didn't answer; arms crossed over her chest, she silently watched Bruce and Talia go out of the room, closing the door behind them. Standing there, she thought that she was surprised to see that Bruce already had found someone to warm his bed, but she also considered that she _shouldn't_ be surprised. He was freaking Bruce Wayne – there were always dozens of women chasing him. It was hard for her, now that she knew about Batman, to accept that side of him. As far as she was concerned, the playboy act was just a farce, the unfunny joke Bruce had to tell over and over to avoid have people figuring out who he really was, deducing that his nightly activities involved a lot more than just parties.

But he _was_ Bruce Wayne. And even though he was not a shallow, vain man, he was also the kid that grew up in wealth, surrounded by other rich people, and heir to a fortune. Like it or not, Wayne Enterprises was one very real and important matter, that she imagined Bruce couldn't simply neglect – and shouldn't.

It had been easy for her to see how she would fit in his life as Batman, a companion that understood his life as crime fighter and its challenges… but she wouldn't so easily get familiar with his public life as Bruce Wayne. Even though she had walked among the rich and fabulous all over Europe and Asia, even though she had spend countless night in parties, balls, operas and fancy restaurants, she had never considered herself one of them. Her mother used to tell her: _so pretty_, she would often say, usually holding Selina's face between her cold palms, _it's too bad that the stench of poverty never fades away. If only I had given you up for adoption… you would have had a chance Selina. _

She didn't know about having a chance if given to adoption, but Selina knew that she would never forget who she had been – who she was. A very poor girl from the Narrows, that had been despised and mistreated too often by those that could have done something for her. She couldn't help but remember all the men that would go to her mother's little apartment and have sex with her while Selina watched TV on the other room. Those well-dressed, polite men, that too often got violent and mean, much like the man that had killed Holly's mother.

So, yeah, Bruce might be used to the ugly side of life; he had that mask to hide his pretty face, much like she did… but when the mask was gone, he was back to be the prince of Gotham, and she was back to be Selina Kyle. And, in all honesty, those two couldn't be more different from each other.

* * *

Bruce drove in silence all the way from St. Mary's to the Grand. Next to him, Talia was also unusually quiet, just watching Gotham's streets on the other side of the window.

"My father was right", she said at some point. "Gotham is a filthy, hopeless little place."

He didn't answer; it was obvious that she was trying to aggravate him. And so, in silence he remained.

When they got to the hotel, he didn't plan to get off of the car.

"You're not coming up?" She seemed sincerely disappointed and slightly annoyed.

He frowned:

"I've to work."

"Please, Bruce. Come up. We need to talk."

"Talia…"

"Please."

Against his better judgment, he agreed.

They didn't exchange words while in the elevator, or until she opened the door of her suite. "Come in", she asked.

He had been inside the room a few times before: one of the most luxurious suites available, right on the top floor of the building. It had a master bedroom and another sleeping room, a terrace, two different sitting areas, a dining room, a living room with a TV, a bar and a kitchen, which had a separate entrance. Despite all the available space, Talia had been living there all by herself: even her security people and her personal assistant had their own rooms, just across the hall.

"Talia", he begun.

She interrupted him:

"So… Selina."

He didn't give her any signs that he was going to say anything about that, his features impassible; she kept talking:

"She's the one, isn't she?" Dropping her handbag over a divan, she walked back to Bruce, standing in front of him. "The woman you never speak of, the one that has taken hold of your mind…"

She reached a hand to grab his jacket, pulling him closer to her. "Selina Kyle. I _hate_ her now."

"Talia, c'mon. That's silly."

"It's not silly. It's not. You see, these last few weeks I've been thinking about that woman, the nameless siren that has Bruce Wayne on her palm… but I've never felt threatened. Never.

She ran her fingers down until they found his belt; then, she pulled his shirt out of his pants, finding a way for her hands to reach the skin of his back. "Until now", she said.

"And why is that?" His voice was little more than a whisper.

"Because I saw the way you look at her", she answered, her lips gently closing on his earlobe. "You still want her. You want her more than anything…"

"No."

"You do. And you don't even know it…" In a sudden, violent move, she ripped his shirt open, revealing his thorax. There it was, his most recent scar: a red line that went down his shoulder for roughly five inches, finishing almost at the center of his chest. "She was there when you were shot, wasn't she?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"She helped you. She _saved_ you." Talia laughed bitterly. "What you and Selina share… it's special, isn't it? This bond… life and death."

Bruce lowered his glance to watch Talia unzip her dress and slid out of it, abandoning it on the floor. He frowned:

"Are you sure about this?"

She kissed him eagerly. "Isn't this reassuring enough?"

"It's just…" He earnestly stared at her. "You didn't want this before."

"I always wanted to be yours", she declared in candid objectivity. "I was just hoping that you would feel the same way."

He was disconcerted by her straightforward answer, producing no reaction as she took off her underwear and showed herself to him in complete nudity. "I'll wait no more", she spoke softly. "I realized that you _love_ that woman, and that won't change anytime soon."

She took his hand, leading the way to the bedroom. When they reached her bed, she laid there, pulling him to be on top of her. He kissed her and, with Talia's assistance, took off his pants.

"I'll comfort you, Bruce", she told him, "I'll give you what you need… and in return, you'll learn to love me."

That was a promise he couldn't make, and intended to tell her that:

"Talia… I can't…"

"Hush, my darling", she asked. "Please, I don't want you to commit to this… I'm just telling you. It will happen – I know it will."

They kissed again, but when he finally allowed himself to let go, it was Selina's face that came into his mind. _No regrets_, she was telling him, _no regrets._

Yet another promise he couldn't keep.

* * *

Talia saw when Bruce left the room, at almost midnight. She was going to take the opportunity to shower and change, but there was no time: just a few moments after Bruce was gone, Deathstroke entered her room, coming from the balcony.

She showed no reaction, merely walking to the closet and putting on a robe to cover her naked body.

"Where have you been?" Her tone was harsh, as it should be with incompetent employees.

"Around", he said through his strange mask. "Though I had the chance of seeing a few interesting things when I got here."

She glanced at him in despise. "I hope you enjoyed yourself. I certainly did."

"It showed." He leaned on the wall behind him, arms crossed over his broad chest. "I thought your little boyfriend would never leave… I was about to come in and show him the exit."

"I wouldn't approve", she said, taking a seat on an armchair close to the bed. "Must I remind you that you have a lot to make up for?"

He seemed upset about that remark:

"I told you: I won't leave this damn town until I'm done with my work… I'm a professional, and I never leave unfinished business behind. Catwoman and Batman, they will both get what they…"

"Be quiet, Wilson." Her tone was demanding, imperative. "That's _not_ what I want."

He answered in a hoarse, cold tone:

"You brought me here to _kill_ them… You wanted them dead, and you wanted it done in a very particular way. I complied. I was almost _killed_, and still you were a _fucking bitch_ about it, saying over and over how I had _failed_ you, how I shouldn't even think about leaving…"

"Are you done leaking your wounds?" She bluntly asked, her eyes showing a scornful impatience. "If you are, I want you to listen to me."

Deathstroke grunted, but said nothing else.

"Alright", Talia spoke with satisfaction. "Listen carefully: I want you to leave Gotham as fast as you can."

"What?!" His tone, though muffled by the mask, still denounced his outrage. "Are you fucking out of your mind? Are you fucking _kidding me_?! Do I look like a goddamned _clown_ to you?!"

"Careful, Deathstroke", she grunted, her voice a menacing sound. "Be very careful by what you say…!"

He seemed extremely angered and confused, his hands shaking, his breath a rapid, loud sound. Still, as Talia glanced at him in an ominous, evaluative way, Deathstroke struggled to regain control over his emotions: fists closed, a few deep breaths, and he managed to quietly listen to her.

"What I once wanted doesn't matter, Deathstroke. What matters is what I want _now_. And _now_, now I want you to leave Gotham. Go as far as you can. Keep a low profile."

"And what about…" His voice was little more than a whisper, hesitance in his tone – for the first time during the entire conversation, he sounded more humane, even vulnerable.

"The deal's still good, my dear Slade… Rose will be freed when Batman is dead."

"Fuck that, Talia…! You just told me to walk away…!"

"For now, Deathstroke, for _now._"

He punched the wall behind him, leaving a deep mark on it.

"Please, Slade, don't be childish." Talia stared down at her nails, noticing she probably should schedule her weekly manicure.

"You're playing with me, Talia…! You're fucking playing me around…!"

"So _what_?" Her tone was ruthless, even cruel. "So what if I'm using you, making you my personal toy, throwing you from here to there as I please? If I tell you to dance, Deathstroke", she pointed a menacing finger at him, "you dance."

No sounds came from that inscrutable mask. But she didn't need to hear or see to know:

"Hate as much as you want. But remember: it's Rose that will pay for your disobedience."

There was no answer or reaction from Deathstroke. All he did was take a step back to the balcony.

"Goodbye, Slade", she said, her tone in obvious mockery. "Have a safe trip."

Without a single world, he jumped over the balustrade.

On the armchair, Talia stretched her arms above her head and yawned. She was tired, and definitely needed a bath – she would have an early morning, and there was so much to do. Again she undressed, going to the bathroom and turning on the hot water. As she waited for the tub to fill, she took her cell phone and dialed, being answered almost immediately.

"Ubu", she said, "It's me."

The one called Ubu greeted her, but she had no time to waste. She spoke in her typically imperative tone:

"I need you to send a message to the doctor", she instructed. "Tell him he might have been seen the last time he took a girl. Tell him I'll let him know when I have more information about that."

On the other side, Ubu obediently agreed. She was about to hang up when she remembered another thing:

"Oh. And tell him the Cat is onto him. He should keep his eyes open."

She turned off the phone, throwing it over the bed. Then, she walked back to the bathroom and dove into the warm water, moaning in pleasure. She had a smile in her lips as she leaned her head back and sighed, now completely relaxed.

She had every reason to be glad: the game was on the move, and she was the winning player.


	16. We All Were Kids Once

Batman found Catwoman crouched on St. Mary Church's tower bell, dutifully watching the grounds of St. Mary's Home for Girls.

"You can't do this every night, you know", he commented as he landed on the roof next to her, gliding from a building nearby.

"That's arguable", she said, barely glancing at his direction.

"She has my tracer on her", he reminded her. "I would now if she was taken."

"Ah. If she was taken, you say… and what if she's simply killed? What if this wacko decides that all he needs to do is cut her throat as she sleeps in her bed…"

"That's not this guy," he pointed out. "This guy does nothing if not punishing and causing suffering. And this needs to be done in private, and last for a while."

"So you say", she shrugged. "I would rather play on the safe side and keep an eye on the place."

He crouched near her, his cape draped around him, the wind singing on their ears. "Perhaps you shouldn't worry as much", he pondered. "Word in Gotham City P.D. is that the social worker that interviewed Holly on Monday got nothing out of her."

Catwoman displayed a sly smile. "That's my girl", she whispered.

Batman shook his head in disappointment. "Tell me you didn't do that…"

"I don't know what you mean."

His tone was husky and angry. "You _coached_ her, didn't you? Told Holly what to say and what keep quiet about, ruined the best chance the police had of finding the man that killed that little girl's mother!"

"And what if I did, _Batman_?" She raised her goggles and turned to face him. "I'm not saying I did this, but if I _had_… I wouldn't regret it for a second. For a _second_!"

"Do you think Holly will thank you? Do you think that in ten, _five_ years from now, she won't regret this?"

Selina snorted in despise. "Not all of us need to get the person that killed our parents, Bru… _Batman…_!"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"That's right, I don't", she replied in anger. "My mother killed herself… and I had no one to blame but myself. I'm sure it was much better than what happened to you."

He coldly stared at her for a moment, then finally turning his gaze ahead again. "That's not what I meant. I'm not here to compare childhood traumas."

"Then _why_ are you here?"

He sighed. "To see you."

She briefly glanced at him, watching his masked profile under the pale moonlight. "I'm fine." Her voice was a soft, gentle sound, barely audible. "You don't have to worry about me. I'm a big girl. I can handle."

"I worry", he admitted. "I worry that whoever was after us isn't finished yet."

"Oh", she muttered, "that."

"Don't take this lightly, Selina."

"I don't. I mean, those guys almost killed Batman, of all people. Imagine that."

The shadow of a smile showed in his lips. "All I'm saying is: keep your eyes open."

"Always, Batman, always."

"And get some sleep, Selina…" He used his cable to reach a building north of where they were. "Holly will be safe in the meantime. I'll watch over her. I promise."

With those words he was gone, disappearing into the darkness.

* * *

"Dr. Elliot", said the man in a solemn, fearful tone, "I strongly advice against this."

He was one Dr. Julius Hopkins, psychiatrist, current Director of Arkham Asylum. He was also one of Thomas Elliot's former co-workers, and had agreed to receive his colleague in the institution to, as Tommy put it, a brief tour. All Elliot had to do was suggest that he needed a psychiatrist in Gotham General, and Hopkins gladly agreed to see him. Apparently, Julius desperately wanted to change his line of work: from criminal crazy to regular psychiatric challenges.

"I understand, Dr. Hopkins. But I honestly believe I'm prepared to deal with whatever this freak has to throw on me."

"You mean figuratively, of course."

"Of course."

Hopkins scratched his head – which was losing hair in a scary progression, Elliot noticed – and contemplated the dark corridor ahead of him.

"I can't allow you to see him if not through the glass…"

"I wouldn't have it any other way, Julius."

The man hesitated for a moment, then finally gesturing to one of the guards to approach:

"Silverman", he called, "take Dr. Elliot to see prisoner John Doe."

The man called Silverman responded only by widening his eyes. "Sir", he argued, "no one talks to him unless Dr. Quinzel authorizes…"

"Guard!" Hopkins tone was severe, and he seemed slightly annoyed by Silverman's remark being made in front of Thomas Elliot. "_I'm_ telling you to take Dr. Elliot to see him! Do you think Dr. Quinzel would disagree?"

The guard did not answer, merely lowering his gaze to look at his own shoes.

"Don't mind that, Dr. Elliot", Hopkins spoke in a dismissive tone. "Dr. Quinzel is one of the doctors I supervise… and _he_'s a case she's following with me. The patient seemed to have formed a bond with her, and so I allow her to see him in regular bases."

"I understand", Tommy muttered and nodded, pretending to agree. He knew better than that, of course: Julius probably was just too scared to go near the patient, and had forced one of his residents to take over the case.

"Well, I'll say goodbye now, Tommy", Hopkins told him as they reached the first locked door to the high security ward. "There are other patients that require my attention."

"Oh, yes, I know, Julius. Thank you, thank you very much for this… it's a great opportunity."

"And about that place in Gotham General…"

"Sure, sure… I'll call you, okay?"

Hopkins smiled in an expression that showed both hope and despair. _How pitiful and revolting_, Tommy thought. Julius had never been considered one of the brilliant doctors, but it was sad to see him go that low… a glorified warden, that's what he was. Years and years of study and training only to be trapped in that horrid asylum. It was obvious that Hopkins would never find a decent place to work again.

He waved goodbye to his pathetic colleague, following the guard down the hall.

The corridors where long and oppressive, a narrow line of metal doors that concealed disturbed minds inside padded cells. If any notion of humane treatment for the mentally ill had ever reached Arkham, it had been forgotten. Thomas Elliot wouldn't be one to criticize that treatment: his years in med school had developed in him a deep despise for any kind of psychological illness, something that he understood only as weakness.

He hadn't lied to Selina when he told her he admired Dr. Jonathan Crane. He had met him in many occasions, mostly in academic circles, and had been fascinated by the lack of moral or compassion the man displayed. His work with that "fear gas" was also remarkable, and he eagerly wished to discuss details about the formula, a work he thought it was grossly underestimated by his colleagues. Unfortunately, he wouldn't have the opportunity of doing it now – now, he had someone else he needed to see.

"Here we are, Dr. Elliot", said the guard while pointing at a passage to the right.

"You're not coming?" Tommy was honestly intrigued.

The man's eyes filled with terror. "Oh, no, sir… Nobody goes beyond this point… not unless you have to."

"You're kidding me." He coldly stared at the guard. "Isn't he locked in a cell?"

The man answered by taking a few steps back. "I'll wait for you here, Dr. Elliot."

"Unbelievable…"

Thomas Elliot advanced towards the passage, realizing he still had several feet to walk. The corridor here would barely allow two people to walk side by side, and it stretched for over fifty feet. It ended in a glass wall, that revealed a cell that had but a bed, a sink and a toilet, all made of solid steel. There was no visible door, making Tommy assume that the glass wall itself would slide into the stone wall to create an opening. White LED lights illuminated the corridor, and four LED lamps were located outside the cell but pointed inside the small room – its only source of light. Therefore, the inside of the cell was in permanent twilight, a place that knew no night or day, and where time seemed to pass in a different way from the rest of the planet.

And there _he_ was.

Sat on the floor, legs stretched in an unnatural, strange way, arms abandoned on the sides of his body. From a distance, he looked like an old, battered doll, and nothing like a human being. His skin was pale, his eyes bright spots in the darkness: he stared straight ahead and without purpose, two dark pools that at once seemed immobile and also to follow every step Elliot took in the hall. The man was dressed in nothing but white, cotton pants and shirt, and his hands were carefully placed over his lap. Long, colorless fingers, knuckles that seemed so sharp and aggressive. They were something to take note of, although easily forgotten when one finally saw it: his grin. His smile, carved into the skin of his face, dreadful scars. As Tommy Elliot approached, his eyes couldn't avert from those scars… what caused them? And how had his face became such a monstrosity, though in such a perfect, symmetrical manner? Had those been done on purpose? Certainly. But by whom? Could that man… could he have done that to himself…?

"My, my , MY…!" It had begun as a soft whisper, an insinuation of a sound, growing rapidly into a loud grunt, high and then suddenly grave, a strange rhythm that was disturbing even for Tommy Elliot. "Look at THAT! Another pretty LITTLE DOC for me to PLAY with..!"

Approaching the glass, Tommy placed both hands behind his back and spoke in a polite, considerate tone:

"Hello, Joker… I'm Doctor Thomas Elliot."

The laugh was sudden and violent, an unexpected sound that caused even the collected, cold Dr. Elliot to shiver.

"Oh… I KNOW who you are…" Joker didn't move a muscle, except for slowly licking his own lips with his tongue, a gesture that much reminded Tommy of a snake. "The doctor, yes, THE doctor…! The one that likes to HURT, aren't you?"

This intrigued Elliot:

"Why do you say that?"

"Who knows…?" Now he spoke in a mellow tone, slightly tilting his head, like a timid young girl. "Maybe… maybe I know one or two things about you… just by looking… Or maybe…!" He turned a pair of maniac, hungry eyes to stare at Tommy. "Maybe I just HATE doctors, and know that you are all BUTCHERS that can do nothing but cut, cut, cut, cut, cut…"

That turned into a song, a repetitive, monotonous sound that he babbled over and over again.

Thomas Elliot just sighed. "All right… alright, okay… just… just…"

There was no reaction from Joker as he spoke, nothing but his senseless chanting. He wasn't going to stop.

"Look", Tommy kept saying, hoping that Joker's craziness wouldn't ruin everything. "I didn't come here to study you, or anything like it. I just wanted to talk…"

"OH! OH! OH!" Joker had suddenly stood up and ran to the glass, violently bumping on it and laughing hysterically, like it had been just a big joke. "I SEE now… HE is your favorite subject TOO…!"

"What the _hell_ are you talking about?"

Joker's wide grin was tainted by blood, thin red trails coming down the corners of his mouth. No surprise there: the shock to the glass had been a brutal one.

"C'mon, DOCTOR ELLIOT… You know perfectly well… our Dark and Stern friend! Batsy Bat!" His strange eyes were leveled with Tommy's, close enough for the doctor to notice how his pupils contracted under the light, revealing his dark irises.

"He's not my favorite subject", Elliot murmured.

The Joker was again laughing, and bumping his forehead on the glass.

"You're gonna hurt yourself…"

At that remark, the man violently hit the glass once again, an unpleasant sound quieting the doctor.

"I'm _hurt_, Doc", the Joker hissed. "Can you _heal _me?"

Thomas Elliot stared at the pale face ahead, those ugly scars so evident to him now. _Dear God_, he thought to himself, _it's like the skin was tore apart, not cut… could that be…?_

"Wanna know how I got the scars?" It was like he had read Elliot's mind, and in some ways he probably had, Tommy admitted. There was no chance his disgusted interest in those scars couldn't be noticed in his features.

"Okay", he agreed, although he could bet that the question was merely rhetorical.

"My mama was a CRAZY bitch… A REAL bitch… I mean, the hag would be all over me for anything, hitting me on the face, pinching my legs, talking, talking, talking ALL DAY LONG…! She was so MEAN she would hide the food and make me STARVE all day if I didn't do my chores…"

Tommy sighed. The way the Joker told the story, his tone going up and down, his body rocking back and forth, his eyes still and staring at him without blinking… it was deeply disturbing. Elliot raised a hand to touch his own forehead: he was sweating.

"Then one day she tells me I have to learn three pages from the Bible by heart… three LOUSY pages, a very annoying passage about this crazy asshole that was about to do his own kid a favor and KILL him, sacrifice him to the OLD GOD, but a damn ANGEL comes down and stops him. Boring stuff."

"You mean Abraham?"

"I mean, I DIDN'T FUCKING care… I was a nice kid. I hated my father, but whatever. He wouldn't gut me in a church." He finally blinked. "Would yours?"

He smiled broadly, but didn't wait for an answer:

"I didn't learn SHIT. I PISSED on the Bible and couldn't repeat a single word from the passage. Oh, oh, oh… my mom was MAD…!"

Tommy watched with fascination as the Joker laughed again, and then proceeded.

"Anyway, mommy dearest LOCKED me in my room… for THREE DAYS, no food, only water allowed. 'Study the BOOK', she would say, 'read it and recite it…' I didn't. And then, on the night of that third day, I escaped through the window and went downstairs… and ate a whole CHICKEN…!"

He laughed wildly, then halting in a sudden, tense silence. From his side of the glass, he watched.

"Go on", Tommy asked. He realized that, under the clown's scrutiny, his mouth had gone dry.

When Joker spoke again, his voice had a graver, nasal tone.

"She caught me. Mother. Eating. Her food. HER FOOD, that fat bitch would scream, out of her mind. Like a CRAZY person. And then she took all the food in the fridge, and the pantry, and everything that was eatable in the house… and she made me EAT…! EAT, and EAT, and EEEEEAAATTT…! And when I couldn't anymore, she would make me vomit, and give me some more… She hit me so hard that she BROKE MY JAW. Broke it. Till it was hanging from my face, heavily pulling the skin down, and I couldn't CHEW or BITE, just SWALLOW, and THROW UP…"

He did have a strange smile, Tommy admitted. He _could_ have had his jaw broken.

"And then the skin on the corners of my mouth began to TEAR. And I was crying and crying, and MOTHER WOULD FEED ME MORRRRRRRE… and I tasted the BLOOD, and it was wonderful… it would help me swallow. And I ATE. And mommy saw it, and she was CRYING TOO! And that's when I started to laugh, and LAUGH, and pull my jaw DOWN and DOWN… I would ask mommy, as she cried in a corner of the kitchen, I asked 'WHY SO SERIOUS?', I asked…"

The laugh began again.

"That's a nasty story", Elliot commented.

"Is it?" Joker placed both palms against the glass. "I don't know. It's just a STORY, right?"

"You saying it's not true?"

"I don't KNOW! Isn't it?"

"It's _your_ story!"

"Are you SURE…?" She moved his eyes rapidly from side to side, then up and down, looking at Tommy in an intensity he had never experimented before. "You SMELL like a momma's boy. Look at you." He smirked, than assuming an expression of mockery. "I bet your mother picked your clothes until the day you went to your fancy Ivy League college, didn't she? And bought your underwear for you all through med school…"

He laughed hysterically.

"Pretty, PRETTY boy… Tommy-boy… Tommy, Tommy, TOMMY, TOMMY…!"

"Shut up!" Elliot punched the glass right at where Joker's face was located. This caused the clown to stop laughing: he now displayed a sinister grin.

"Hm… Nice, Doc, nice… You have a MEAN streak in you, I see…!"

Tommy didn't answer. Again the Joker was licking his own lips:

"You said… you SAID you didn't want to _study_ me…" He locked his eyes in Elliot's face. "What DO you WANT, Doc?"

Thomas Elliot thought for a moment, considering carefully his words. Then, he said:

"You almost destroyed him. Batman. You managed to get under his skin."

There was a sudden change in Joker's features: it assumed an expression of deep pleasure and joy. "I did, didn't I?'

"You nailed him; you really did it… why?"

"The question is: WHY NOT?"

Joker tapped the tip of his fingers on the glass, attentively gazing at Thomas Elliot.

"In the end", Tommy declared, "you failed."

"Oh", the Joker frowned, "did I?"

"You're here. He's out there. Batman remains, Gotham resisted… You lost."

"Or", he offered, "I succeeded."

Tommy chuckled. "How? How did you succeed? By getting locked?"

"By showing HIM… showing him that HE WILL LOOSE. He can't quit, he can't STOP. He will LOOSE EVERYTHING, everything he ever LOVES, he will get BEATEN, and he WILL BE HURT. He will be HATED, he will have NO FRIENDS, NO ALLIES, he will have to be a FREAK forever. He's TRAPPED." Joker laughed quietly, like a mischievous little boy. "Most of all… I showed him WE ARE THE SAME! We are sides of the same coin, we BOTH are what happen when the world for a moment doesn't make sense… And as long as THERE IS A BATMAN… THERE WILL ALWAYS BE A JOKER…!"

"You really _are_ crazy…"

For the first time since they had met, the Joker stopped smiling. He stared at Thomas Elliot in grave seriousness:

"Oh, no, Doc… I'm not crazy. I'm actually the only thing that makes sense in this town." He spoke in a soft voice. "You see a man dressed as Bat, and what do you do? Run? Scream? Try to kill him? Get him arrested? No…"

Tommy approached the glass to listen.

"You laugh, Doc, you LAUGH…!" The smile slowly returned. "Get the JOKE?"

And the laughing grew, taking the corridors of Arkham once again.


	17. Lost in Translation

Batman kneeled on the sand, collecting portions of dirt.

"How could that be useful?"

He looked over his shoulder, noticing Catwoman watching him from the docks. Rising, he placed the plastic bag with the dirt in a compartment in his belt; then, he spoke:

"It's evidence."

"It looks like sand and rocks to me."

She jumped over the balustrade and joined him on the shore. "Wait", she said, smiling playfully, "could be that you believe _a crime_ took place here?"

He didn't answer.

"Not the murder of the young prostitute that was found this morning, was it?"

"Since when is Catwoman a detective?"

"Since right now", she said, placing herself on his path as he tried to walk away. A hand on his armored chest, looking up to find his concealed, dark eyes. "Tell me what you know."

He shook his head in disapproval. "What for?"

"You're not the only one that wants to get this man, _Batman_."

"And what makes you think", he asked, impatience in his tone, "this is the same guy you've been looking for?"

"I know it is."

"You know? Really? _Know_?"

She was obviously offended by his remark, frowning and pursing her lips. In a sudden move, she grabbed his chest armor, an angry grunt as she shoved him back. That didn't have much effect, Batman firmly standing on the sand, but her intention had been clear:

"What's the matter with you?" She didn't yell, but rather groaned, like a ferocious animal. "Bastard. Think you're the only one that knows something about this psycho that goes around town slitting throats?"

Batman didn't answer.

"I might not have your freaking Bat-computer, but I ask questions and know my way around this dump that is Gotham."

He looked away from her, eyes on the dark waves that hit the shore. She spoke, now in a more composed tone:

"It's the guy that killed Holly's mother… I know it's the same guy."

"The man that killed Holly's mother kidnapped her and took her somewhere else. Then tortured her for two days before killing her." He looked around. "This new girl they found… she was killed here. Not tortured. Throat slit. Thrown at the water with a few rocks in her coat's pockets." He seemed lost in deep thinking. "Clumsy job… almost like it was done in a hurry…"

"It was", she said.

She had picked his interest; he now watched her attentively. Catwoman kept talking:

"The dead girl… Gotham PD might not have identified her yet, but I did. Her name is Lori Wallace, is she's not your regular working girl…"

"What do you mean?"

"She's an undercover FBI agent."

He hung in silent shock for a moment. Then, he shook his head in vehement denial:

"No. No, it can't be… I have access to the Bureau data base, I know every agent they have in Gotham…"

"Ah", Catwoman smirked in triumph, "_almost_ every agent. You see, Special Agent Wallace is _not_ in the data base… because she wasn't doing the FBI's work."

Batman said nothing – there wasn't much to say. Apparently, this time, Catwoman was way ahead of him.

"Agent Wallace had been recruited to some very hush-hush governmental project called 'CADMUS'."

"And what the hell was she doing in Gotham, disguised as a prostitute?"

"I'm not sure. But, rumor has it, this project is all about investigating and developing counter-measures to deal with people like _you_ – heroes."

"And how did _you_ find out all this?"

"I resent your tone, Batman. It's almost like you don't believe I have the means or skills to break into high security government facilities."

That statement could either make him laugh or get very worried – he opted for none, deciding to change the subject:

"You think the man that killed this agent… he was going to kidnap her and carry on as usual, but…"

"… Agent Wallace surprised him, and almost got the better of him. _Almost._"

"I'm sorry, Catwoman, but this just doesn't make any sense. Assuming you're right about her identity…"

"… which I am…"

"… then why would she place herself in this situation? She wasn't here in Gotham to get this guy, was she? Her business was with _me_, probably, even you… or Deathstroke… this guy… he's irrelevant."

She crossed her arms and stared at him in a concerned expression. "What if he isn't?"

"You know what I mean. He gave no signs that he has powers, or special skills…"

"Yes, but what if – and that's a big 'if' – what if he's someone with connections?"

"Connected how? To whom?"

"I don't know." Now she was the one facing the dark ocean, a pensive expression. "Deathstroke, maybe?"

Batman placed one knee on the sand, again examining the ground bellow him. "Slade Wilson." He pondered his next words for a moment, finally deciding to speak up. "He's not dead."

Catwoman closed her eyes and leaned her head back, taking a deep breath of the sea air. She then exhaled slowly, finally glancing at Batman again.

"Are you sure?" She asked that in a sorrowful, whispered voice.

He nodded. "I got images of him walking on the streets of Macau, two days ago. I'm a hundred per cent positive it was him."

"Macau?" This piece of information seemed to have improved her mood. "Well, at least that's on the other side of the globe."

"Yes", he agreed. "But he won't be there forever."

"You don't know that."

"He has a reputation to keep." Batman walked towards the water, placing himself immediately behind Catwoman. His warm body was a distinctive presence as they were surrounded by Gotham's bay cold wind. "He has to finish this job. The whole underworld knows he tried to kill us… he can't leave them under the impression that he simply failed and gave up."

"And I even told the police he tried to kill Bruce Wayne. Brilliant. Now he must have figured out you're Batman."

"And that Selina Kyle is Catwoman."

"Yeah, that too." _Though he already knew that_, she thought of saying. Instead, she kept quiet.

"I'll keep an eye on him", he spoke in a gentle tone, "and let you know if anything changes."

She felt his hand on her shoulder. "Bruce…", she whispered.

He took a step forward, his body on her back, both his hands now clasped over her arms, gently pressing her biceps, holding her together as she allowed her head to find support on his shoulder. His hard mask scratching her cheek, and then his lips, soft on the skin of her face.

"Selina…", he begun.

"Please…" She turned to face him, again so close to his massive chest, her legs between his, her hands on the sides of his masked face. "Shut up."

"We can't do this." He insisted, his arms falling from her to the sides of his body.

"You mean _you_ can't", she said in a scornful tone. "Sorry, I forgot you were no longer Gotham's most eligible bachelor."

He took a step back, and remained silent.

"What?" She asked. "I'm an occasional reader of social columns too, you know? It's everywhere: 'Bruce Wayne's new love'; 'Bruce and Talia attending another beneficent event'; 'Bruce Wayne's new love interest wardrobe choices'; 'Bruce Wayne visits jewelry store: is he ready to propose?'; and the list goes on, of course. Though I was honestly curious: _did_ you buy her a ring already?"

"I would rather not talk about this right now", he sternly declared.

"Yes", she bitterly agreed, "we better not."

He walked a few steps on the sand, but seemed to have a sudden change of heart, turning at once and speaking:

"You were the one that wanted to move on, Selina. You."

"And you wanted to _fix me_, Bruce." She had her arms crossed over her chest. "Like there was something _wrong_ with me."

"I wanted to _help you_. You got it all wrong."

She fiercely shook her head in denial. "Knowing who I was… all we had been through that night, at the Odyssey Tower… and you chose to lie. Asked me for that stupid crown, and was willing to leave me in the dark for God knows how long…!"

"And what did you want, Selina? That I had simply taken off my mask, told you everything, forgotten about the crown…?"

"I wanted you to stop playing me…! I wanted you to forget Catwoman, and Batman, and stopped with the plans, with the schemes, with this crazy thing of trying to guess what I'm thinking instead of just _asking_ me…!"

"No", he gravely said. "No. You were always just… scared. You can't trust anyone."

"That's right, I can't", she spoke angrily, again turning her gaze to the dark waters. "But if I have trust issues, what about you? Have you already shared with your new girlfriend the truth about your busy nights?"

"The secret identity has a purpose. The most important is to _protect_ those that are close to you."

"Yes. And that's why you should always give them the _choice_, right?" She looked over her shoulder. "Or hasn't she gained your _trust_ just yet…?"

He was already making his way into the darkness of the docks. "I still want that crown, Catwoman", he groaned. "You better bring it to me before I go after it."

"Yeah", she shouted, "you sit tight in your little cave and wait for it, Batman."

She had no idea if he had heard her: when she looked back, he was already gone.

* * *

He went straight home after the docks; he was feeling agitated and restless, and feared he would do something stupid if anyone crossed his way.

During the drive, he thought about the conversation he just had with Selina again and again: there was so much he needed to check and go over, and not only about the murder – the whole thing about the government project bothered him to no end.

But the way she had spoken to him… that was what bothered him the most.

* * *

She went straight to St. Mary's Home after the docks. Instead of going to the bell tower, however, she decided to enter the orphanage.

She had done that before, mostly to test the alarms and security – which was awful, basically useless -, but there were a couple times that weren't about that. Like tonight.

There were nights in which she liked to go to the dorms and simply stand in the darkness, watching the girls. Watching them sleep peacefully, those poor, abused girls, that in their dreams, under their blankets, over their old beds, looked like any other girl in the world. Like that, they could be anyone, anything they wanted and, more importantly, there was nothing that could ruin their dreams. Nothing, except, maybe, for the morning light.

And Selina wondered, in the darkness: when had she lost the ability to dream like that?

Or to dream at all?

* * *

"You said Batman has been here", Amanda Waller said in a severe tone.

"Yes, madam."

She looked at the agent with impatience, but tried to disguise her contempt for the man. He was just an ordinary, average agent; even CADMUS had some of that. Not every recruit was great, unfortunately.

Not every agent was like Lori Wallace.

"I see at least two sets of footprints on the sand, agent. One is Batman's, of course. The other…"

"Oh", the agent mumbled, "that's right. It seemed there was someone here with him. Catwoman, maybe?"

"_Catwoman, maybe?"_ That caused Waller to feel actual physical pain. She took a deep breath and tried to not yell:

"Don't you know who was here with Batman? Weren't you following him…?"

"Actually, madam… I kind of lost him from sight for a while…"

Waller turned her back on the man to avoid slapping him on the face. She slowly began to silently count backwards from one hundred to one, trying to control her savage anger.

It was hard not to be angry; Amanda Waller wasn't used to be in ignorance about anything, and that's how she was now. All she knew was that Lori Wallace was _dead_, and they didn't know who had done it. They knew only what Wallace had feed them in the last few weeks: that the man killing prostitutes was somehow connected to the criminal organization that was active in Gotham. A piece of message suggested that this psychopath might be a member of the group that hired Deathstroke, or at least be in contact with who had hired him.

And Lori had decided to take a shot at the guy.

Waller didn't know the details, but if she knew Lori – and she did; she had recruited her herself -, the undercover agent had done all she could to attract the guy's attention. She had tried to fit the profile of his victims, wondered in the vicinities of his latest attacks, even got a new job as a stripper. Three weeks she had been in that game, but only the night before she had made contact. The message was simple: _Target on pursuit. About to engage. Wait for pick up coordinates. _

Pick up coordinates. Lori was very confident that she would be able to arrest the man.

But then again, she had always been overconfident.

It didn't make sense, however, that the man had been able to subjugate a trained agent by himself, and himself alone. Not an agent trained by Waller herself… she had uttermost trust in Lori; whatever happened, that man had help.

Now, Lori Wallace was dead. The last signal from her GPS implant had been from that point down the docks right there. And it probably was where her implant had been removed, destroyed, and later taken somewhere to be disposed of. It certainly wasn't in Lori's body, which had been found the day before only by chance, because the anchor of a boat dragged it from the water as it was raised.

The people that had killed Lori knew who she was. Knew about the implant. Perhaps even about CADMUS.

Damn. They knew an awful lot about everything.

And that could mean only one thing: they were talking about one of the most dangerous criminal organizations in the world, with connections that were far beyond she had first assumed. Resourceful, trained, organized, strategists. There was only one organization that fit the profile.

They were dealing with the League of Shadows.

* * *

Bruce was awakened by Alfred sometime in the afternoon. The butler had the phone in his hand:

"Miss Head, sir."

Bruce took the phone without getting up, still in the darkness of his room.

"Hi", he said.

"You were not sleeping, were you?" Talia's tone was playful. "I told Alfred to not wake you up."

"No, no", he mumbled. "I was… awake."

She laughed. "All right. If you say so." Then, she spoke in a softer voice. "Darling… are we okay for tonight?"

"Tonight…?" Bruce tried to put his drowsy mind to work, mentally searching any information about plans he had with Talia that night. "Hm… yeah, I guess."

"You forgot, didn't you?" She sounded slightly disappointed.

"I'm sorry", he said, finally taking a seat on his bed. "It's just that I have plans tonight. Business. A business meeting."

"Ah", Talia muttered. "But it's the launch of my project, the initiative for the orphan girls of Gotham."

"That's right…" It had finally come to mind, the memory: Talia had been working, together with Leslie Thompkins and others, in a project that would serve children's Homes like St. Mary. "And what time will that be? The party?"

"Early evening. Seven."

"Seven." He thought for a moment. And then: "Well, I suppose I could stay for an hour. Keep you company."

"Oh, darling… that would be great. Wonderful."

"I'll come by the hotel. Six?"

"How about five?" She gently suggested. "So we can, you know, spend time together…"

"Five it is."

"I'll be anxiously waiting", she whispered. "Bye."

"Goodbye", he said, then hanging up. Looking at the clock, he sighed; it was four o'clock already. It seemed he had to get up and take a shower – he foresaw an eventful day ahead.

* * *

Talia hung up, throwing her cell phone in her handbag.

"Got lucky with your date?"

The question had come from Thomas Elliot, who was comfortably sat on an armchair at Talia's suite at the Grand.

She didn't answer him.

"Well", Tommy kept saying, "that's too bad. I thought maybe I would have to fill in for Bruce tonight, but I guess we'll have to leave it as it is…"

He was swaying a glass of whisky in his left hand, a strange smile in his features as he watched Talia pour a glass of wine for herself.

"How about that: I can entertain you while you wait for him", he insisted. "So I can show you _why_ I always had a larger gallery of girlfriends than Bruce…."

Talia smirked. "Oh, Dr. Elliot… we both know that's not true." She took a sip of her red wine. "The only way you can be more popular with women than Bruce Wayne is if you count all the girls that never left your company alive… but that's not much of an achievement, is it?"

"Well", he frowned, "Bruce has his own set of dead girlfriends also."

"Call the women you kill _girlfriends_ is of poor taste, to say the least."

"And how about sleeping with the man you're trying to destroy? How would you call _that_?"

"I would call it… perfect." She smiled. "Why would I deprive myself of a few pleasures?"

"Why indeed", Tommy said quietly.

"Don't be gloomy, Dr. Elliot. It doesn't suit you." She sat on the couch across the room. "I do need something to entertain me, though; so, why don't you tell me how you almost got caught by that little FBI whore?"

Tommy chuckled. "Oh, dear Talia… she was so much more than a simple undercover for the Bureau…" He placed both his elbows over his knees, glass between his legs, head low. "But you knew that already, didn't you? You had me followed, after all."

"Yes. You are welcomed, by the way. I hear my men were very skilled and quick in getting rid of the woman and saving your ass."

"You had me _followed_", he snarled, clearly unappreciative of the help he had gotten from Talia's men.

"Well, I had to, didn't I? You almost screwed up everything the last time you kidnapped a woman…"

He stared at her in an enigmatic, stern gaze. "You said I had nothing to worry about."

"I said I _thought_ you had nothing to worry about." She drank the rest of the wine in her glass.

"And what do you think _now_?"

"I think", she said, her eyes denouncing her loathe, "you should stop playing games with filthy prostitutes and find a decent way to deal with all this rage."

Tommy laughed. "Oh, Talia… you're the best…!"

In a sudden, unexpected move, he threw his heavy glass on the wall behind her, shattering it in hundreds of pieces. All Talia had time to do was protect her face from the shards, several glass fragments scratching her arms and getting caught in her hair and clothes.

"You maniac...!" She was yelling at the top of her lungs, small drops of blood surfacing from small cuts all over her shoulder and forearm.

"Shut the fuck up", Tommy spoke in a collected, calm tone. "Where the hell did you get the idea you could talk like that to me?"

Talia rose from her chair in a quick, confident move. In her hand, a sharp knife.

"Please", he asked with a smile, his voice a mellow sound, "put that down. We don't have to be like that… and you don't want to hurt yourself."

She wasn't in her best mood. Her tone was cold, her face a mask of deep, contained rage:

"The only reason you're not dead _yet_, you idiot, is because I still _need_ you."

"Big words from a little girl with a little blade", he chuckled.

"If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't even need the blade."

Tommy smirked. "I like you, Talia. I really do."

She threw the blade in her hand, hitting the armchair just below Tommy's left earlobe, millimeters from his face.

"Holy shit!" In a second he was standing next to Talia, looking at her in wide eyes and displaying a pale, colorless complexion. "I hate to admit", he said in slow, hoarse words, "but that was a magnificent thrown."

Talia remained silent for a moment, watching Tommy Elliot in a meditative way. Finally, arms crossed over her chest, she spoke:

"Thank you, Dr. Elliot. But the truth is, I missed by more than an inch."


	18. Dark Character

She remembered a few months ago, when she had just arrived at Gotham and felt mildly indifferent about going to rich people's party… ah, good old days!

The irony was, though she now _hated_ those events, including most of the now familiar faces and names of Gotham's old families, she saw herself attracted to it also. And as she entered the large tent built on the grounds of St. Mary's Home for Girls, walking next to Leslie Thompkins and holding Holly's hand, she didn't marvel at the sight of such a beautiful structure, or scanned the room in search of valuable jewels, not even noticed the envious glances that followed her around; in fact, if anything, she felt too comfortable in that place, dressed in her shine silver dress, balancing herself without difficulty in her high heels. It was almost like… she belonged.

She didn't, of course.

She had to remember that. Her only peers in that party were St. Mary's girls, dressed in beautiful dresses donated by rich people that wanted to appear generous, but probably weren't. Damn, one of the older girls was wearing an exclusive Valentino, for Heaven's sake. The person that bought that should have used the money for something more useful to that girl, like a scholarship – now, _that_ would be nice.

Yeah, but buying a dress for one of those girls would guarantee a picture with Talia Head, the mentor of the "Save Gotham's Girls" project, and her fabulous boyfriend, Bruce Wayne. Who wouldn't want that, right? _Right_?

Selina saw them on her left, greeting their guests and playing their part of good high society heirs. How fortunate that Talia's dad had left her a huge trust fund, must like the Waynes had done to Bruce. And how fortunate that the exotic European heiress had found in Bruce her perfect pair, equally rich, equally gorgeous, equally literate.

Shame that he also had that secret little life as Batman. If not, Selina would have to beat that perfection out of them.

Not that she didn't want to anyway. It was just a matter of looking at them, their gracious smiles and polite words: the most pleasant people you could ever picture, a couple so perfect that it was annoying – well, to Selina, at least, they were. Thinking about it, it was no surprise people hadn't figured out Bruce was Batman: who would have guessed that the rich boy, so courteous and respectful, had such a mean streak in him? Who would have guessed that his idea of a fun night involved jumping from buildings and breaking jaws of criminals? It was hard, so hard to picture it… that same man, standing over there, shaking hands with the police commissioner... was also the man that got his hands dirty every night, doing the job no one else in Gotham could or would. The rich boy was more than simply that; in fact, he was threatening creature. He was violent, rough, intelligent, fearless. That man, right over there. In a tux. Now kissing an old ladies hand.

Go figure.

Selina thought she wasn't the same. She wasn't like Bruce. Not better or worse, but different. Dressed like that, in her best dress, she felt that she wasn't so different from her Catwoman self. Mask or no mask, she just couldn't put up with that act. She couldn't make herself pretend to be something she in fact… wasn't. Truth was, when she looked at herself in the mirror that very night, dressed in her fancy clothes, she examined her figure up and down and all she saw… was Catwoman.

She was Catwoman, and that was how it was. She was also violent, and intelligent, and – mostly – fearless. Except that she showed it. All the time.

And she liked that.

"Look", it was Holly pulling her by the hand, "Mr. Bruce is over there!"

"I know", Selina whispered to Holly as she leaned down to level their eyes. Leslie was already walking to the happy couple, all smiles to Talia and Bruce. Selina, however, hesitated for a few moments, ignoring Holly's insistent pull.

"Don't you wanna _talk_ to Mr. Bruce?"

She looked down to face the little girl, who showed a puzzled expression in her soft, rarely concerned features. "He's busy, Holly."

The girl didn't argue – it was another quirk the child had already revealed: she never argued. It was no surprise to Selina; she could easily picture what Holly's life had been so far, raised by an impatient, often drunk mother, that wanted nothing else but to be left alone. There were no arguments in Holly's life before now – there was simply whatever her mother told her to do, or getting slapped, beaten or yelled at if she didn't obey. And sweet, gentle Holly had probably discovered pretty early that keeping her mouth shut was the best she could do to keep herself in one piece.

That's why it was also no surprise to Selina that Holly hadn't said a single word about the man that murdered her mother when interviewed by the police. That was a girl used to keep secrets, to share nothing with anyone. And she was smart enough to realize that telling the truth would only cause her trouble. Yet another thing about abandoned children: they often prefer to be left alone, to their own devices. While regular kids enjoy being the center of attention, a child that was often abused learns the value of being invisible. They want to be ignored. Adult attention, in their case, is often a very bad thing.

Something that Bruce clearly couldn't relate to, of course, if he thought Selina had _coached_ the girl about how to answer questions in a therapy session.

But then again, he probably didn't think much about her anyway.

* * *

Bruce saw her as soon as she entered the hall, Holly holding her hand. They were both adorable, Selina and the little girl, Holly in a blue dress, Selina shining in her silver one. A perfect pair, they were: the cute child, the beautiful woman. No wonder people would turn to look at them, such an endearing duo, easily passing as a young mother and her charming little girl.

He imagined that Selina would be horrified if she ever heard about someone picturing her as a mother, but he couldn't help it now. Ever since the first time she had brought him there, to St. Mary's, he had seen a different side of her. When he had met her, no doubt her exquisite beauty and sex-appeal had seduced him, but now… now he saw beyond that. He also saw that generous, devoted person, that had been spending her money – stolen money, he had to remember that – in orphan girls and most of her nights in a bell tower, guarding a defenseless child's dreams. The woman that now guided Holly around the room in such tenderness, that treated the daughter of a dead prostitute like a little princess. It seemed easy, but he knew too well it wasn't; so many people in that party, so much money flowing, and so few nice gestures.

Perhaps it was that, what he saw in her, that not even Selina could see: she was a good person. She had so often done the right thing… why was it so hard for Selina herself to accept that being a criminal wasn't her call? They could accomplish so much together, so much… if only she would believe that. That he didn't want to _change_ her; he wanted her to be herself, the person she didn't realize she _already_ was.

And he now had to deal with something else: guilt. Plain, bitter guilt. Because, next to him, there was Talia – and it was an undeniable fact that he hadn't been completely honest with her.

It wasn't that he didn't care for her; he did, very much. Earlier that day, when he arrived at Talia's suite, he was sincerely concerned about her: she answered the door dressed in a shirt that was covered in blood stains, her arms displaying several lacerations from a sprinkle of glass shards. Over the initial shock of seeing her like that, he questioned a surprisingly unfazed Talia about the many wounds in her arms, and she told him she had tripped and fallen against the glass door that led from the living room of the suite to the open terrace. The remains of said glass were being cleaned by the hotel staff, and Bruce found himself surprisingly irritated by the situation. Certainly the glass should be reinforced, and not so easily broken. Talia was lucky that most of her cuts were superficial and in her arms; what if she had been wounded in her neck, or even had deeper lacerations in her wrists?

He wasn't ashamed of the fact that he had asked to speak with the hotel's manager and chief of security. He had also suggested that Talia moved to another place. _Rent an apartment?_, she had suggested. He agreed it would be a good idea even before realizing what the act meant: that Talia would be permanently moving to Gotham, and it only made their relationship even more serious.

Now, he wondered if it was even fair to Talia what he was doing – deep down, he knew he was being selfish and unkind. Because he _liked_ Talia, no doubt. In a different moment of his life, he could even be lead to think that he _loved_ her.

If Selina wasn't in his life, that was.

It was the contrast: the way he felt about her, despite all that had happened between them. For every moment in which he believed he was over Selina, for every brutal exchange, every hurtful conversation… there was also moments like those: moments in which he gazed upon her and felt unable to look way, moments in which he realized he was so deeply attracted to her that he would drop everything and follow her to the end of the world, if that was what she wished. Moments in which he had to constantly repeat to himself that she was a _criminal_, a _burglar_, that she was still in debt with him and the rest of Gotham for what she had stolen, and that she had never, not once, promised him she wouldn't do it again.

In fact, she had mostly tried to remind him that she had every intention of doing it again.

Regardless of how his relationship with Selina would develop, if ever, it was still unfair to Talia that he kept her in the otherwise sweet illusion that they, Bruce and Talia, were going somewhere. They weren't. He wouldn't be able to commit to anyone right now, and didn't wish to, no matter that Alfred bugged him day and night with silly ideas of him eventually _marrying_ Talia and having a family of his own.

As far as he could see, in all honesty, that option simply wasn't in the cards for him.

"Bruce." It was Talia by his side, gently touching his arm and getting his attention. "I'm going to gather the girls for a picture… would you find Leslie for me? I want her to be in it."

"Sure", he absentmindedly agreed.

"Okay. Tell her to come meet me, will you?"

He nodded and watched Talia go around the room. She was a very gracious, nice person, who would easily communicate with people, and always seemed to know the right thing to say. It was no surprise that in few months she had already accomplished the hard task of being accepted in Gotham's high society as one of them – all the money she had had also helped, no doubt, but money can only take you so far. The rest, the hardest part of gaining people's _respect_, that didn't have much to do with Talia's fortune.

The honest truth: Talia did have Bruce's respect and admiration. He cared about her, and he no doubt found her attractive and desirable. But, as days passed and they enjoyed each other's company more and more, he was convinced that there was no love between them. And he really meant _them_; because even if Talia showed him extraordinary devotion, he didn't feel in her any actual passion.

Nothing like what he had experienced with Selina, anyway.

Standing at the spot Talia had left him, he realized he hadn't accomplished the task she had left for him: find Leslie Thompkins. He spotted the old lady talking to Jim Gordon, and walked towards them – just in time to see Selina and Talia talking on the opposite side of the large hall. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should interfere; then, concluded that his presence would only complicate things, perhaps turn a simple situation into an unpleasant one. Whatever they were talking about, for now, wasn't his concern.

* * *

"Hello, Selina."

The words, spoken in a pleasant, musical voice, belonged to Talia. There she was: standing a few feet from her, smiling that strange, unnatural smile of hers. If for no other motive, that grin was enough reason to cause Selina to pause when she was around Talia; a lovely, and yet so forced smile, always too jovial and innocent for her dark, deep eyes.

"Hey, Talia", she coldly answered, unwilling to get another game of pretending started.

"And hello to _you_, Holly", Talia said, in an annoying, fake, childishly tone, that wasn't enough to disguise her obvious contempt for the kid standing in front of her.

The little girl didn't seem to notice what was so clear to Selina: that Talia didn't like or cared for children, and was not enjoying talking to Holly. At least, the girl wasn't attracted to the woman in any way; even though she had politely smiled and whispered a muffled "hello" back at Talia, she held Selina's hand tighter, and immediately lowered her gaze to stare at her own feet. Selina decided that she needed to shorten the conversation:

"Can I help you with something, Talia?"

Again the smile, now with a certain malicious intent in it:

"You sure can, Selina." She reached a hand to touch Holly's head, caressing her curls. "You see, we're going to take a few pictures of the girls… so I'll need to borrow Holly for a moment."

Selina nodded in agreement:

"Certainly, Talia. I'll go with you."

There was a flash of anger in Talia's eyes, quickly disguised again by the fake smile. Selina took the chance:

"That's alright, isn't it? That I escort Holly…"

"Of course", Talia immediately reassured her. "You're more than welcomed. I would be flattered if you joined us for a few pictures yourself."

"_That_ I'll pass", she joked.

"Oh, please, don't…" In a gentle movement, Talia had placed a hand on Selina's arm, her palm cold and her grasp firm, slightly painful. "Leslie would be so happy… and so would Bruce. I'm sure he would like you to join us."

"Would he…?", Selina said, skepticism in her words.

"He cares for you, Selina. We _both_ do… I admire all you do for St. Mary. Especially because I know _why _you relate to these orphans girls… because, well, you _are_ one, aren't you?"

The contempt in Talia's voice was clear, her words obviously meant to hurt Selina.

"Oh, yes", she answered politely, decided to not fall into Talia's trap. "I can certainly relate."

"I've lost my parents too", Talia casually commented. "My mother, when I was a child; my father, quite recently."

That was an unexpected piece of information, given in such honest that Selina actually felt touched:

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Talia's smile was gentle:

"Thank you… that's nice of you. Yes, I miss my father dearly… We were extremely close." She took Holly's hand in hers, pulling the girl close to herself. "You wouldn't understand, of course."

There was no denial that this last statement had caught Selina by surprise. "What…? Why wouldn't I…?"

"Because you had no father, of course. Weren't your mother a prostitute, or something like that?"

Shock and anger coldly washed through Selina, making her speechless for a moment. Suddenly, she was just a girl again, looking into hard, mean eyes that showed her only despise.

"What's the matter, Selina? The _cat_ got your tongue?"

The smile in Talia's lips was devilish.

"Talia."

It was Leslie, approaching them while accompanied by Bruce.

"Hello, Leslie", she answered, her voice a smooth, enjoyable sound once again.

"Ready, my dear? The girls are waiting for you."

Talia was already next to Bruce, placing a light kiss on his shaved face. "I was just trying to convince Selina that Holly would be in good hands…"

"Oh", Leslie chuckled. "Selina _is_ very protective of Holly, aren't you, my dear?" The old lady had turned to look at a silent, stern Selina. "Are you okay, dear? You look pale…"

"Just fine", she harshly answered.

Leslie seemed disconcerted by Selina's unkind answer.

"We should go, Leslie…" Talia had a wicked smile in her features. "Let's not keep the girls waiting."

"Yes, of course." The senior woman took Holly's hand. "Come, Holly…"

"And you", it was Talia talking to Bruce, caressing his face, "behave."

She glanced at Selina as she walked away, seeming pretty satisfied about herself.

"Selina", Bruce said once Talia and Leslie were out of sight, "are you sure you're not feeling sick? You _do_ look pale…"

"I'm fine", she bluntly said. "I need some fresh air."

And with those words, she too walked away.

* * *

He found her outside, sat on a stone bench near St. Mary Church's cemetery. That place had been strategically left out of the party's grounds, separated from the large tent that sheltered the even by pleasant flower arrangements that were almost as tall as Bruce himself. Still, she couldn't so easily escape him: he knew she would find a darker, deserted spot to be alone with her own thoughts. And perhaps he should respect that, Bruce considered. Maybe she wanted to be alone and he shouldn't interfere – doesn't his continuous interferences usually ruined everything between them?

That was the tricky thing, however: as much as he knew that leaving Selina alone might be the best to do, he just couldn't bring himself to do it.

She spotted him while he was still behind her, at least thirty feet away:

"Oh, God… what do you want?"

Her tone denounced impatience and anger, and he boldly assumed those weren't necessarily directed at him:

"Champagne?" He offered a glass by holding it in front of her face, he still standing behind her.

She shrugged. "Ah, what the hell…"

Taking the glass, she drank its content in one long gulp. He waited for her to finish it before asking:

"Are you okay?"

"Better now."

He sat next to her, facing the opposite side of the cemetery she now stared at.

"What happened?"

Selina took a deep, audible breath. "Nothing, really. Nothing… important."

"You look upset", he insisted.

"I am", she admitted. "I'm very upset. I'm _angry_…"

He watched her in silence, his eyes absorbing the sight of her face under the distant pale lights: grey shadows and faint luminosity, bringing out the exquisite perfection of her features. Looking at her profile, he saw the smooth, gentle drawing of her lips and nose, the high, delicate cheekbones, the notably long eyelashes and the elegant chin. He thought that he would gladly do that all night: just watch her, admiring every detail of her beautiful lines.

"I think", she said, in a careful tone that denounced how unexpected the words were even for her, "that I have to leave Gotham."

Bruce frowned:

"Why?"

"Because I'm suffocating, Bruce." Now she had slightly turned her head, looking at him in honest dismay. "I think… I think my days as Catwoman are counted."

"I can help", he said, already wondering how he could be offering assistance to her, a _criminal_, like that. Perhaps he really was the hypocrite Selina often accused him to be.

"I don't want your help", she declared, not in anger or despise – she honestly seemed to be simply _sad_.

She had enlaced her own body in her long, graceful arms, hands rubbing her exposed skin that suffered under the cold breeze. Without a word, he removed his jacket and placed it over her shoulders.

"Thank you", she whispered.

He looked down to the dead grass under his expensive shoes, his own hands clasped between his spread knees.

"Selina", he said, "whatever you think is wrong… whatever _is_ wrong… we can deal with it."

"Running is dealing with it", she simply stated.

"You can't run forever, Selina."

She smirked. "Wanna bet?"

"I don't", he bluntly answered. "I don't want you to…"

He never finished the sentence; in the darkness, the only discernable sound was the music playing far away.

"What, Bruce? What you don't want me to _do_?" Again she smiled. "I bet you have a long list…"

"Not really." He raised his gaze to look at her face. "I just don't want you to… leave."

Surprise passed through her face, then quickly gone; all that was left was rage:

"Please, don't do this. It's not fair." Her eyes darted in resentment, her voice an angered hiss.

"Not _fair_? To whom?" He too spoke in fury.

"I don't know, Bruce… To all of us, maybe? You, me, your damn girlfriend…"

The mention of Talia caused him to sigh, the unpleasant feeling that he was _betraying_ her surfacing again.

"I'll be honest with you, Bruce", Selina was saying, "that woman is a dangerous, treacherous creature…"

"Selina."

"No, listen… I'm not just saying it because… you know, because of _us_. I really think you should be careful."

He grabbed her hand and spoke near her ear, his voice a rare, gentle sound:

"I can't", he whispered. "I can't do this anymore."

She turned to look at him, their faces so close together that he could smell the champagne in her breath.

"What' you talking about, silly?" Her own tone was now soft, little more than just a murmur.

"I'm talking about pretending", he said, his face approaching hers, his nose lightly touching the velvet skin of her cheek. "Pretending it's not _you_ that I want."

"Stop it, then." She had raised a hand to his hair, her fingers messing with his perfectly settled locks and grabbing a good portion of them as she leaned slightly and exposed to him her own neck. He couldn't resist that: soon his lips were touching the soft, sensitive skin, gentle kisses that caused her to tenderly moan in pleasure. She allowed these words to escape through her mouth:

"Just come with me…"

He answered in a grave tone, spoken by her ear, his voice translating a painful reality:

"I can't, Selina."

Pulling back from him, she stared at him in what seemed honest confusion:

"Why, Bruce? Why can't you leave this awful city, this damn dead end you've dragged yourself into…?"

"Because", he said passionately, "this is my _home_. And I have a _job_ to do."

She shook her head in denial. "No. No, this is no job… it's an obsession."

Her hands had fallen from his hair to rest again on the stone bench, helping support her own weight as she inclined her body away from him.

"When is this going to _end_, Bruce? Is there even an end to this… this _crusade _of yours?"

"Someday", he gravely answered, "Gotham won't need me anymore. And then…"

"You'll be free?"

"Yes."

"And until then… you remain. Like this. _Pretending_."

He didn't answer her.

"Okay", she chuckled, though the sound was sad and hopeless. "I get it. Well, your loss…"

"Are you _really_ going to leave?" He grabbed her wrist. "Where are you going?"

She harshly pulled her arm from his grasp. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I would."

"Why? So you could come after me and ask for that damn crown? So you could look at your 'Bat-computer' and track my steps?" She smiled sarcastically. "Don't worry. I'll send you a postcard."

He didn't answer her questions; instead, he just asked:

"And what about Holly?"

"I'll take her with me."

He glared at her in disapproval. "Think this through, Selina."

"I did."

"No, you didn't. You're talking about dragging a child with you around the world while you keep stealing art and jewelry… that's no life for a kid. Children are not _pets_."

But Selina didn't answer him immediately. She stood up and walked away, speaking only when she had distanced herself a few feet from him:

"Don't judge me, Bruce. At least I'm trying to help this girl. What the heck have _you_ been doing for her?"

She paused for a moment; and then:

"That's the difference between us, Bruce. I get _involved_. Too involved, maybe. The people I want to save, they have names. You, you fight for Gotham City, this impersonal, huge thing… that will always need you. And that's why you'll _never_ be free."

He didn't respond her – there wasn't much he could debate. In the darkness, by himself, he wondered about what he had said: _someday_, he had told her. Someday, he would be free. Someday, Batman would be over. He had told Rachel the same, and she didn't live long enough to see that happen. In fact, it was because he was Batman and _loved_ her that Rachel had died.

Maybe it was for the best, then, that Selina was leaving. At least she would be safe. Away from him, far from Gotham, she might be able to find an ordinary, happy life. In a few years, maybe he could go find her as he had told her he would. Maybe.

_Someday_…

* * *

There was the lady named Talia, and Holly didn't like her much.

She was kind of mean in the way she spoke. Ms. Thompkins used to tell the girls they should be nice to Ms. Head, because she helped them with money and stuff, and Holly did her best. Still, she was _afraid_ of Ms. Head.

But she was obedient. She tried to be. And mommy, before she was taken by The Bad Man, always told her she had to obey and be very, very quiet.

So, when Ms. Head asked her to show her Sara, the doll Selina had given her, she said "yes", and went to her bedroom to get the toy. Even thought she didn't like the dark, and all the lights were off; even though she was always afraid of being alone, and Ms. Head said she couldn't go with her, and that she shouldn't bother Ms. Thompkins or Selina to ask them to go with her. _You're a big girl_, Ms. Head had told her, _you can do it by yourself._

As she walked down the dark hall that led to the dormitory, Holly again thought that she didn't like Talia very much; she didn't like her _at all_.

Mostly because Ms. Head had been mean to Selina, Holly had seen that. Ms. Head had told Selina just what girls from Holly's old neighborhood used to tell _her_ about mommy: that mommy was a _prostitute_ and, although Holly didn't exactly know what that meant, she knew it was something bad. It had to be. Girls back home said that and giggled, and called Holly dirty and diseased, even though she wasn't. And when she asked mommy about the word, _prostitute_, she had gained a slap on her face. _Don't ever call me that, you ungrateful little bitch_, she had screamed. _I'm the only fucking person you've got in this fucked up world_.

And that was true.

Not anymore, though. Now, mommy was gone. The Bad Man took her. He had hurt mommy and taken her away, and Holly remembered people whispering around her that she had no one else in this world… and she had worried. She thought that maybe she would have to live in the streets, like those boys and girls in Old Town.

But there was Selina. Selina and Ms. Thompkins, but especially Selina. She took care of her. She gave her things. She came at nights sometimes, and stood outside the window in her funny cat outfit, making sure she was all right. Selina was her friend.

Selina would be a good mommy someday.

Holly wouldn't be scared of the darkness if Selina was there. If she could hold her hand. The dark was bad, Holly thought, she had _always_ thought that. It was in the dark that mommy left her every night, ever since she was really small: inside the big closet, where she had to be very quiet, and never, never come out.

The halls were just as dark as mommy's closet – even more so. It was strange, Holly thought: Mrs. Krychev, who took care of the girls in that floor during nights, always left at least a few lights in the corridor on. _So you girls don't trip on your way to the bathroom_, she used to say.

But Mrs. Krychev wasn't there now. She was at the party outside, like everyone else.

Holly took a deep breath and held the air inside her lungs, running to the dormitory. She opened the door quickly and jumped on her bed, finding little Sara under the pillow, where she had left her.

"My baby", she whispered, clutching the doll in her arms.

And then, a sound. A bad sound, Holly thought: the croaky, mean laugh. The scary voice:

"How sweet", he said. He was standing next to the dormitory's door, closing it with one hand. Standing in the darkness, big and scary, using a long coat and a doctor's mask.

The Bad Man.

She thought of screaming, but no sound came. An open mouth in complete muteness, widened eyes that could only watch the huge, menacing shadow approach her.

"Hello, Holly", he said, his tone an unpleasant, ominous hiss. "I've been looking for you, little girl…!"

As he got closer and closer, tears came. The memories. Her mother's senseless screams. The sound of _his_ laughs. And the word:

"_Hush_", she mumbled, tightly pressing the doll against her chest. "Hush, baby, hush…"

His gloved hand, rubber gloves coldly grabbing her cheeks and forcing her chin up.

"Oh. So you do remember me, don't you?"

She did, but she knew he wouldn't like that. Mommy had always, always told her that she should never speak to or about the men she saw in their home. _They don't exist_, mommy used to say.

But they did. _He_ did.

"Answer me, you little cunt!" He grabbed her by her hair, those beautiful blond curls, and violently pushed her off the bed, Holly falling on her back on the floor.

She sobbed, almost soundlessly. Tears that fell down her face in large drops.

"You little bitch", The Bad Man angrily cursed. He pulled her up by her arm like she was a doll herself, easily lifting her and holding her by her waist, one of his hands over her mouth. "We're going for a stroll, darling little whore."

She moved, finally moved: wildly thrusting her arms and legs, kicking senseless and without any purpose but silently protest. She groaned and mumbled against his gloved palm, her body shaking violently in the painful rhythm of her now untamable cry.

And then, the needle. The sting in her neck. A burning pain and her body going limp, heavy, paralyzed.

"Hush… hush now…" His voice was a distant thunder that filled her heart with fear. Weak hands, her Sara falling from her arms in abandonment, a baby left behind. His rough, uncaring touch as he grabbed her and placed her over his shoulder.

"Ah", he said, seeming so happy about himself for doing so, "I almost forgot."

Again he moved her, that little girl that was trapped inside an immobile, lifeless body. His hand went for her neck, finding the silver pendant around it. He chuckled:

"There it is… Bruce's fine gift…" He ripped it off in a single move, throwing it on the floor. "But we wouldn't want to make things too easy for our dear friends, right, Holly?"

The girl did not answer; she couldn't. Her mind had already drifted into darkness.


	19. Truce

Most of the girls were gathered around one long table, sitting quietly while waiting for the waiters to serve them their fancy dinner. Selina watched that with a smile as she returned to the party, thinking that was perhaps the first and only chance many of those kids would have to dress nicely and have someone serve them sophisticated food. And for that, she was grateful: if for one night in their lives those girls were treated nicely, well, maybe they could believe they actually deserved that, and not just now – for the rest of their lives.

Running her gaze around the table, Selina immediately noticed Holly's absence. She walked to Leslie:

"Holly is not here", she told the orphanage director.

Leslie immediately frowned:

"She was with us during the pictures. I brought the girls inside, and Holly was just behind us, talking to Talia…"

Selina bit her lower lip.

"Okay", she said. "I'll ask our hostess about it…"

At this point, Selina could already feel her hear racing in her chest, a feeling of urgency causing her to move quickly around the room. _Damn you, Talia_, she mused, _can't you even watch a little a girl for a few minutes, you heartless hag?_

The answer was obvious, of course: she couldn't. Worst – maybe she purposely wouldn't. Because it was Holly, and no doubt Talia had noticed how Selina felt about the girl.

Although she couldn't actually believe that Talia would intentionally harm Holly because of their connection. She wouldn't. She wasn't _that_ bad, was she?

Talia was standing among a large group of people: a few reporters, the mayor, business partners – no Bruce in sight. Nevertheless, the woman looked busy, and didn't acknowledge Selina's presence when she approached the group. Unfortunately, Selina had no time to waste, and she spoke in a loud, impatient tone:

"Where's Holly?" Her question was blunt and obviously disturbed the conversation, most people around Talia turning to look at Selina. Talia herself took longer than the others to do that, although the question had been directly addressed to her; when she finally turned, the aggravation in her features was obvious, even theatrically displayed.

"Holly?" She repeated the girls name like it was the first time she had ever heard of it. "One of the girls?"

"Oh, go to hell", Selina answered in exasperation – she had no time for that. "Where _is_ she, Talia? You took her to take pictures…"

"Miss", a man interrupted her. He was neatly dressed in a dark suit, strongly built, a distinctive scar on the left side of his face. _Bodyguard_, Selina immediately registered. Talia's security people were very discreet, but she was familiar enough with the type. Especially because the man had placed himself between the two women, like he had been previously warned that she could be the source of trouble. Hands ahead, he even slightly pushed Selina a few inches back. "Calm down, please."

"Screw you", Selina said, addressing both the man and Talia, perhaps even those surrounding them. "If something happened to her, Talia, I'll hold you responsible!"

"Oh, my God!" Talia's expression was one of deep shock, but Selina wouldn't fall for that; she knew that was just for show.

"She better be fine, Talia", she sternly announced, a dozen of faces around them watching her in expressions that translated both alarm and repugnance. Selina realized that she couldn't care less – better yet, she recognized even a certain satisfaction that she still could have that effect in people, even out of her Catwoman outfit.

Selina didn't have the time to enjoy that feeling or register anything but Holly's absence, though. The fact was, the girl wasn't anywhere in the vast room, and she needed to keep looking. Just as she walked away from Talia's group, many outraged voices commenting on her awful behavior, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She was ready to snap, thinking that maybe Talia's bodyguard had come after her, when she saw who was behind her:

"You said there's a little girl missing, Miss..?"

"Kyle", she immediately added. The man that spoke to her was none other than Commissioner James Gordon.

"_Selina_ Kyle. Yes, now I remember." He nodded to himself at some private thought he didn't share out loud with her.

"The girl missing", Selina kept talking, "is Holly Robinson."

"Holly Robinson?" He reacted in honest concern. "She's the daughter of one of the serial killer's victim."

"Yeah."

The Commissioner had already taken his cell phone from his tux' inside pocket and dialed. "This is Commissioner Gordon", he spoke gravely, "I need backup immediately in St. Mary Church. Run warnings to all units in downtown Gotham about a missing child…"

Even in the midst of all that damn mess, Selina found out, to her surprise, that she was able to feel gratitude.

XXXXXXXXXX

Bruce knew he hadn't been alone outside for more than fifteen minutes; however, he returned to a very different party from the one he had left.

The music had stopped. Most guests were sat on the several chairs spread around the room, talking in whispers and gazing at each other in apprehension. Walking among the tables and gathered in small groups, a handful of people: security people hired for the party, Commissioner Gordon, Leslie Thompkins, staff from the orphanage… and Selina. That was all he needed to know to finally deduce that something had happened involving one of the kids – and he had a pretty good idea which one.

He was about to reach Gordon when Talia intercepted him:

"Bruce. Where have you been?" Despite the question, she didn't seem too curious about his previous whereabouts. She didn't even wait for him to give her an answer before speaking again. "We have a problem."

"What's that?" He had his attention divided between Talia and the Commissioner, noticing that Gordon was now instructing a group of policemen that had just arrived as how to conduct a search.

"It seems that Holly Robinson is missing", she declared. "We are trapped here. Gordon called a _lockdown_ and security is not allowing anyone to leave."

There was a tone of complain in her words, but he didn't indulge her there:

"The Commissioner is right, Talia", he said, much to her dismay.

"This is nonsense. All for a child that is probably just trying to get attention."

"No", he bluntly disagreed. "Not Holly. She would never…"

He was abruptly interrupted by violent, angry words, shout from behind him:

"Where _is_ she, Talia?!"

He turned to see a furious, frantic Selina approach them, going at Talia while pointing an accusatory finger, speaking with such rage that it was hard to even recognize her. Talia's only response was to roll her eyes:

"Not _this_ again…!"

But Selina wouldn't have it: she seemed to be deeply upset – something that, considering Holly's disappearance, was easy for Bruce to understand.

"Where the _hell_ is she, Talia? Who _took_ her? Who…?"

Selina had actively ignored Bruce and everyone else around her, except for Talia. One of the bodyguards, however, had intercepted her by placing himself between the two women.

"Don't come any closer", the man said, his voice a raspy, low sound, not a bit less threatening because of that, though.

"Get out of my way", Selina groaned through her clenched teeth, her eyes a cold, menacing sight.

"Selina", Bruce risked, gently touching her arm – he was fiercely repelled by her, who shoved his hand away without ceremony.

"Don't touch me!"

"I'm just trying to…"

"You want to know what's going on? Ask your _girlfriend_! She _knows_ something, I just _know_ she does, and she's not talking…!"

Now Bruce was sure that the situation required intervention. Even more because Talia wasn't making things easy: she chuckled – a sound of arrogance and scorn.

"Are you insane?" Her smile was the perfect match for the contempt in her voice. "I have nothing to do with this…"

"You lying bitch." The hate in Selina's voice was pure and absolute. "You did this. You took her outside and…"

"… and when we were done with the pictures, I told her to look for _you_, Selina dear." She raised an eyebrow. "Where were _you_?"

Talia's gaze went from Selina to Bruce, and back again.

"Honestly, Selina…" Talia crossed her arms and put on a wicked smile. "If you want to point fingers, why don't you start with yourself?"

Bruce saw it: the moment. He had seen it enough in his life to recognize it, and act accordingly: it was the moment in which a person reaches her breaking point. When the thin threads of morality and social restrains are finally severed, and a person stops thinking in the most rational, logical manner. And that moment, right then, was when Selina lost all her carefully cultivated self-control.

She was swift, agile, much like the feline creature she invoked with her costumed self every night. The bodyguard would have never been able to react in time; Selina easily hit his nose in a surprisingly quick, simple hand move, and pushed him to the side by pulling him by his tie.

Her target wasn't the bodyguard, though, but Talia. She violently dashed forward, ready to strike, but Bruce managed to interfere before more damage was made. Holding Selina by her waist, an arm around her body, the other holding her hand before she could connect to Talia's face – who had, strangely enough, not moved or blinked, standing perfectly calm as her bodyguard was knocked down and she was about to be attacked.

"Let me _go_!" Selina roared in fury, her feet not even touching the ground as Bruce tried to contain her without being too rough.

People had gathered around them now, security men, even a few policemen. They watched the situation in hesitant confusion, but that wouldn't last if Selina kept behaving like a mad person. Bruce asked her, their faces close together, all eyes on them:

"Selina, please!" He spoke the next sentence in a whisper close to her ear. "_Think_, Selina. Think about what you're doing…"

That seemed to have an effect on her, as she stopped fighting his grasp and now gasped for air.

"Breathe", he encouraged her. "That's it, breathe…"

Just a few feet from them, still standing at the very spot she had been through all this, Talia watched them. Her hazel eyes were attentive and enigmatic, her expression an evaluative one. That definitely wasn't the way Bruce would have wanted things to happen, but he guessed that much was now clear without being said – and that was confirmed when she merely glanced at him in resentment and turned her back on them, walking away from the confusion, two other bodyguards following her.

Bruce followed her example: still holding Selina, however gently, he pulled her to a quieter corner of the room, just behind the stage where the now idle music group had played most of the night. She didn't fight him, she barely moved; in fact, she allowed him to guide her there in silence, immediately sitting on the floor when he finally let go of her.

He crouched next to her, a knee on the ground, a hand on her shoulder:

"Hey." He caressed her exposed skin, his fingers stroking the back of her neck. "It's okay. I'm going to find her."

She had hidden her face in both her palms, and like that she remained, in silence. She didn't move even when Leslie approach them, sorrow in her nervous voice:

"Selina!" She kneeled next to Bruce, placing her soft palm on Selina's knees. "Please, my darling, don't get hopeless… we'll find her…"

"Leslie", Bruce spoke in a firm, objective tone, "when was the last you saw Holly?"

"Outside, maybe an hour ago. We were done with the pictures…"

"_Stop it_!" It was Selina; she had finally revealed her face again, her green eyes misted, her features taken by grief. "She's _gone_! _He_ took her, the man that killed her mother… he did it… he finally managed to do it…!"

"We don't know that", Bruce argued.

"I _do_", Selina insisted, opening her hand and revealing an object on her palm: the silver pendant that Bruce had given Holly. "She's gone, Bruce… gone… in the hands of a psycho…"

As she lowered her head and sobbed, Bruce realized it was the first time he had ever saw her cry.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Commissioner Gordon knew this: when a day was bad in Gotham, it was a _really_ bad day.

He hadn't had one of those in a while, not ever since the Joker and the whole ordeal with Harvey. When that was over, he had been enough of a fool to think that maybe, just _maybe_, things wouldn't get as bad again.

Now, he wondered if he hadn't greatly undermined Gotham's famous capacity for disgrace.

It started early in his house, with Barbara finally giving him her ultimatum: it was Gotham or her. He had until the end of the day to give his resignation letter to Mayor Garcia and say his goodbyes, or else, he would have to say _his family_ goodbye.

He understood why Barbara was doing that: last year had been a tough one, to say the least. The kids weren't doing so well – Jimmy was having bad grades and wasn't making friends in school, while Babs was getting more and more involved with her gymnastic lessons, barely spending time with the family. Nothing strange there… not only they had been through a lot, being taken by an insane Harvey Dent and almost getting killed by him, but also forced to _lie_. And the lie, that was what was killing them. They couldn't talk about what happened, they had to pretend – for Gotham's greater good – that Harvey had been a _hero_, and not a crook. Batman, the man that saved their lives, was now public enemy number one… and they were not allowed to say differently.

And he knew how painful it was, the lie.

The solitude.

Sat in his office, he looked at his desk and the envelope over it.

It would be easy to just leave. Deliver the letter, go home, kiss his kids and hold his wife. He would be able to finally sleep an entire night without interruptions, and the next day they could take a plane and fly back to Chicago. Maybe Cleveland, like Barbara wanted. That wasn't such a bad idea, not at all…

But a bad day in Gotham? _Really_ bad.

The whole day he stalled his visit to the Mayor's office, thinking that he couldn't do it like that, so abruptly. He thought perhaps would be best to do it after that beneficent even in St. Mary's; if he resigned before that, soon the news would be flying around, and reporters would be all over him about it. He could easily _not_ go to the event, but he had always admired Leslie Thompkins' work, and that was the first time someone was actually doing _something_ for her and the orphanage, and he wanted to show his support.

In retrospect, his life would be a lot easier if he had just worked late as usual…

He took the papers that were on his desk, just next to his resignation letter. It was the file about the serial killer that was attacking women in Gotham, the sick bastard that had a taste for torture and suffering, and very skilled hands when it came to inflict pain without immediately killing his victim. Pages and pages of dead bodies and ugly descriptions of wounds, piled up with psychological profiles and long lists of suspects. Among that, just a few lines and a picture that was worth anything: information about Holly Robinson.

"Poor girl", he mumbled in the darkness of his office, the girl's picture in his hands.

"She can be saved", said a voice behind him.

He didn't need to turn to know who was there, and so he didn't. The husky, grave tone was unmistakable – Batman. Long gone were the days in which he could go to the rooftop and use his "bat-signal" to summon his masked allied; these days, if he did such a thing, he would be followed by a S.W.A.T. team ready to shot and kill Gotham's greatest hero.

What a world.

Now, they had to resort to that: clandestine and dangerous meetings in Gordon's office, risking his position as Commissioner and Batman's life. No wonder they rarely met – only problem was, in the last few months since Batman was no longer directly assisting in investigations, the percentage of closed cases in Gotham City P.D. had dropped almost twenty percent.

Right now, with a child missing and in the hands of a psychopath, Gordon could certainly use some help, even at the cost of his job… that he was about to leave, anyway.

"How do you know she's not dead yet?" He couldn't help the bleakness in his tone. "Clearly this man took her because he believes she could identify him somehow… If he has half a brain, he's going to get rid of her as fast as he can."

"No", Batman disagreed. "If he simply wanted her dead, he could have done that right there."

"Maybe he did. Maybe we just didn't find her body yet."

Gordon sighed. There was truth in his words, and he feared that any moment a phone call would come telling him there was a dead child in a ditch somewhere.

Batman didn't seem convinced:

"This man… he's not afraid of getting caught. That's not why he took Holly."

The fact that Batman had referred to the girl by her first name didn't escape the Commissioner; he thought it was better to not point it out, however.

"Then why did he? If the girl wasn't a threat…?"

"He wants to attract attention."

Gordon frowned. "Who's attention?"

"That, I don't know yet."

He heard Batman moved from behind him to the side of his desk, revealing himself in his dark, tall figure to Gordon. He spoke:

"This serial killer's last victim…"

"If you mean the body found on the shore, she's not identified yet", the Commissioner quickly answered. "She didn't have a record, something that is pretty strange for a working girl of that age, but…"

"You won't find her anywhere", Batman said, throwing at Gordon's desk a file. The Commissioner looked at it for a second, then taking it and carefully examining its contents. He looked through it for a minute before finally speaking:

"Are you serious?" Gordon raised his eyes from the file to stare at Batman in alarm. "Are you saying the dead woman is this Lori Wallace?"

"Former FBI agent. Now serves a governmental project named 'CADMUS'."

"'CADMUS'…" He considered that for a moment. "I've heard about it, actually. An old friend did a consultancy job for this project."

"Do you still have connections there?"

"Maybe."

Batman thought for a moment, then speaking again.

"These people might have information about this man… and other things."

Gordon nodded. "I'll look into it."

"Tomorrow night", Batman said, already retreating to the dark corners once again. "I'll meet you here."

Gordon considered that: according to Barbara, tomorrow night he and his family would be away from Gotham, far away, and would never look back. All he had to do was deliver the letter. Then, this CADMUS thing, Holly Robinson, Lori Wallace, and the other two hundred cases the PD was working on would be someone else's problem.

Tomorrow night.

"Yeah, alright", Gordon answered to the darkness. "See you tomorrow night."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The almost imperceptible tension in his muscle jaw was all the emotion he had let transpire when Catwoman showed herself to Batman as he came out of his car in the cave.

"How did you get in?" His question was blunt and direct.

"Please", she mocked, "I've been all around this place while you were at the hospital – unescorted, mind you."

He removed his cowl as he walked upstairs to the main platform in the cave; there he sat on his chair and turned to the computer, already login into several databases and servers. She joined him by the computer, arms crossed over her chest, her goggles pulled up to her head.

"You're not gonna ask me why I'm here?"

He didn't divert his attention from the screens around him, barely acknowledging her presence. Still, he spoke austerely:

"Go home, Selina."

Catwoman nodded her head in disbelief:

"How can you ask me that?"

He stopped typing, finally looking up to stare at her:

"You are in no condition to do this."

"To hell with that, Bruce. I'm in _perfect _condition."

"The way you reacted tonight…"

"I hope you're not doing this because of the way I spoke to your snotty little girlfriend…"

"It is _not_ because of Talia!" He pointed an accusatory finger at her. "It's about _you_! _You_ lost control, _you_ risked your cover-up identity, _you_ almost hurt people."

"Not _people_; Talia. She…"

"It doesn't matter, Selina! You can't just let your feelings take over you!"

She silenced; moments later, when she spoke again, her words struggled to come out, her voice a hoarse, faint sound:

"It's Holly, Bruce. _Holly_."

"I know."

"I'll do whatever it takes to find her. With or without your help."

Again he stopped what he was doing to look at her, a worried expression in his features.

"You're too involved." He gravely stated.

"So what?" She dismissed that with a gesture of her shoulders. "Why is being involved a _bad_ thing?"

"Because you can't think _clearly_. You make _mistakes._"

"I don't need you for this, Bruce. I can do whatever I want, no matter what you think." She leaned forward, approaching her face from his. "But I figured that if we worked together, we could join efforts and would be able to do _more_ for Holly. How's that for a rational line of thought?"

"It's alright", he answered, not seeming to be completely convinced.

"I can help you, Bruce. You could use another pair of hands."

His attention was back on the computer, and he looked like he was again ignoring her; Selina knew better, though: he was thinking about her proposal. She thought that he could use some encouragement:

"Here", she said, reaching for her backpack and taking an object wrapped in cloth, tossing it on Batman's lap.

He didn't take it immediately: his eyes went from the object to Catwoman, an inquisitive glance as he asked:

"Is this…?"

"I don't wanna ruin your surprise."

Taking the object, he carefully removed the cloth around it, revealing its contents: the precious crown Catwoman had taken from Gotham's Gallery, months ago.

"Aren't you even going to smile in triumph?"

Bruce's stoicism bothered her more than she thought it could. He remained impassible:

"Did you expect me to thank you?"

"I did, actually." Shaking her head, she proceeded. "But we've got no time to talk about expectations, I guess. All I care about is Holly, okay? I think we have a couple leads to follow…"

"Selina…"

"There's the CADMUS thing, but I've also been thinking about interrogating people in a few places, places the victims usually went to find clients… my guess is that this guy might have an eye on them for days before…"

"Selina." He was standing up from his chair, approaching her in a sudden, almost abrupt manner.

"What…?"

Already he had taken hold of her face, both hands on the sides of her head, his eyes straight on hers. "Thank you", he said, the words apparently coming out in great effort.

"This is for Holly, you know? I'm not saying I've changed or…"

"I know." Still holding her, he spoke. "I'm going to find her, Selina. I promise."

She took the step that finally brought them together, her head resting on his armored chest, his arms encircling her in a tight, protective embrace.

"When we do find her…" Selina hesitate.

"What?"

"I can't make any promises, Bruce. I can't promise that when we get our hands on this guy I won't…"

"I know", he whispered.

"Do you?" Her question was made against his chest, her words coming out muffled against his armor. "I want this to be clear, I don't want you to be surprised, or _shocked…_"

"I won't be, Selina." His gloved thumb caressed her exposed cheek. "But I trust you to do the right thing when the time comes."

"The problem is, Bruce", she stated, not without a hint of sadness in her words, "that what I consider right, and what you do, might be very different things."


End file.
